AH Novel: Funny Money

[horton229]

I published an AH novel this year, and am in the process of editing the second book in the series. I am hoping for comments/feedback on a few of the chapters.



Background

- WW2 differences: European War ends in late-1941. Nazis engaged in East, Britain safe and secure

- US does not enter WW2 in Europe.

- 'Today' (1948): Nazis still fighting in the east.



Key changes:

- RN needs to be stronger, so 'Malta' class build but renamed and slight modifications

- Relevant RN aircraft built.



Tagline: Late-40's AH Cold War secret agent thriller

[horton229]

Summer, 1948: London



Rain hammered against the window and thick, heavy cloud blocked the setting sun, so the usually bright bedroom was dark. David Brook flipped the switch on the bedside lamp, took a sip of his whisky and soda and picked up his cufflinks, attempting to thread the stiffly starched cuffs of his shirt. The radio murmured in the background.

“Good evening,” the newscaster began. “This is the BBC Home Service news. We begin this evening with the news Doctor Joseph Goebbels, one of the most senior members of the German Nazi Party, has died following a car accident in Geneva.”

Brook’s head snapped round to look at the wireless, the cufflink dropping to the floor as a flash of lightening briefly lit the room. The heavy crack of thunder followed almost immediately, drowning out the voice of the newscaster. With a scowl, Brook bent to recover the small silver cricket bat from the floor, moved towards the radio, and leant closer to the speaker. He twisted the dial to increase the volume.

“Dr. Goebbels was in Geneva to attend a League of Nations Assembly with the German Chancellor, Reinhard Heydrich. His death comes the day after the Chancellor’s rambling, vitriolic attack on British imperialism and the evils of the Empire in the opening session. One of Adolf Hitler’s closest confidents, some were surprised he did not succeed Herman Goring when the former Luftwaffe commander died two years ago. Dr. Goebbels opposition to the armistice which ended the Anglo-German War, allowing Germany to focus on the East, may have played a role in his not securing the top position, but it is widely believed his support was crucial to Chancellor Heydrich’s rise.

In what would become his final public speech, Dr. Goebbels jumped to the chancellor’s defence after US Vice President William Douglas, no fan of the British Empire, accused Germany of hypocrisy. Douglas spoke of their treatment of the Jews in Europe, the Slavs in the east, and minorities in Germany. The Nazis bullied their way across Europe and were in no position to criticise others.

Goebbels lavished praise on Chancellor Heydrich, pointing to German support for the Jewish homeland in the Middle East and, without irony, talked of the racist exploitation of the peoples of the Empire. His closing words, an invocation for freedom loving people to fight the evils of imperialism, were greeted with enthusiastic applause from delegates of many former and present French, British and Italian colonies.

Dr. Goebbels death comes at an awkward time for Germany. Rumours about economic difficulties persist, and the conflict in the east, now in its seventh year, seems no closer to ending. Trade with Reich dominated Europe is one-sided, generating limited demand for German exports and little benefit for their trading partners.

Mr. Goebbels’ propaganda engine has long perpetuated alleged attempts by the British, and to a lesser extent the US, to stymie German ambitions abroad. Berlin often claims whilst Britain adheres to the letter of the armistice, they are far from the spirit of the accord. What the German people think is hard to know, given the carefully controlled Reich media. Whether his death results in a less antagonistic relationship with the world remains to be seen, and his successor is unlikely...” Another crack of thunder cut off the end of the sentence, and the news reader moved on to the next story.

Brook pursed his lips and focused on his shirt. After finally threading the second cufflink and a quick check of his tie, he slipped on his jacket. Glass in hand, he turned off the light, tossed down the last of the drink and wandered to the kitchen to rinse the glass. He filled his cigarette case and slid the silver box and matching lighter into his pocket, donned a hat and pulled his raincoat off the hook, then made his way to the garage.

Given the weather, Brook was relieved to have left the top up on his black Allard Coupe. He dropped into the red leather seat, turned the ignition, and allowed the three and a half litre engine to rumble to life before he pulled out of the underground garage onto an almost empty road. The rain continued to pound down, bouncing off the tarmac, and the small windscreen wipers struggled to keep up with the water as he drove quickly though the light traffic, along Knightsbridge towards Piccadilly. The news was likely dominate the evenings’ conversation.

He slowed as a bus pulled out, then turned right, exposing the advertisement stretching the length of the bus beneath the upper deck windows. “Your New Life in Africa!!!” the sign offered, with funding for flights and job offers in various countries. The sign boasted an eclectic mix of images – the pyramids, Table Mountain, and an array of wildlife, including lions, elephants, and rhino. Brook pulled away. The dreadful weather certainly made the sun-kissed vistas of the poster appealing.

Brook parked outside Dillon’s, draped his raincoat over his head and shoulders and ran towards the steps through the rain. He had been a guest at Dillon’s on several occasions, and the doorman held the door and waved him through – Stafford must have told him Brook was expected.

“Thank you,” Brook said, shaking the water from his coat. The dark green liveried doorman touched his cap and Brook nodded and moved to the cloakroom where he left his coat and hat. Striding down the wide, dimly lit corridor towards the oak and smoked glass doors that guarded the lounge, he passed pairs of highbacked leather armchairs, separated by discrete tables, arranged at regular intervals along the left wall. Most were unoccupied, but as the evening progressed, they would offer a haven for a cigar, a glass of brandy, and a whispered stock market tip, or perhaps a discrete assignation. Brook pushed the heavy door and was greeted by the murmur of conversation and the aroma of cigarette smoke as he glanced around the room. Stafford Beaumont occupied a deep brown leather chair in the far corner, but his head was turned, and he failed to notice Brook, who moved between the tables as the big grandfather clock chimed seven thirty.

“Evening Staff,” Brook said, offering his hand.

“David!” Beaumont said enthusiastically. One of Brook oldest friends, he rose awkwardly before Brook could protest and reached for the offered hand. “Great to see you. It’s been too long. Drink?” He was a little shorter than Brook, with dark blonde hair, searching blue eyes and heavy tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a navy three-piece suit, white silk shirt and knitted tie.

“Sit, sit,” Brook said, waving his hands as he lowered himself into the soft leather chair on the other side of the table. “A martini would be great.” Brook pulled out his cigarette case, offered it to Beaumont and selected a cigarette for himself. In one movement the case disappeared and the chunky brass lighter materialised. Beaumont leant forward to dip the tip into the orange flame, and Brook lit his own as Beaumont nodded to attract a waitress, who took their order.

Dillons was close to two centuries old and regarded as one of the finest clubs in London. The waiting list for membership was measured in years, but Beaumont had become one of its younger members almost a decade previously, when his father was lost in the opening days of the war with Germany, and the committee made the rare exception to allow him to take over the Admiral’s membership. Brook glanced around the room, taking in the opulent surroundings – heavy carpets, deep leather chairs and sofas, crystal chandeliers – and the obviously wealthy clientele though were ostentatiously so. The two old friends chatted comfortably whilst waiting for their drinks.

“We’ll go for dinner around eight, if that’s alright. I’ve corralled a chap from the bank and an old school chum to make a four for some cards later. They’ll arrive around ten?”

“Perfect. Gives us a chance to catch up,” Brook said with a smile. The waitress arrived and he sipped his drink. “How’s business?” Beaumont gave a noncommittal shrug, coupled with a sly smile. But for an accident at school, he would have followed his father, grandfather and two older brothers into the Navy. As it was, he was a wildly successful banker.

“Heard the news?” Brook asked.

Beaumont nodded, then frowned. “Don’t see much changing to be honest. Not with Heydrich in charge. Word of warning. Nathan’s a bit of a character!” Beaumont paused to sip his drink. “He’s some, er, unusual political views. Got a real thing about the evils of communism. He’s bound to bring up Heydrich’s speech, and Douglas’s response. Should be an interesting evening.” He raised his glass. “Bloody good to see you!”



The card table was littered with the detritus of several hours play. A pair of freshly emptied ashtrays supported cigarettes and cheroots, smoke spiralling slowly upwards in the heavy, warm air. The lone remaining highball glass rested precariously close to Nathan Simpkin’s arm, the dregs of a whiskey and soda diluted to a pale brown by melted ice. The four brandy glasses were fresh. Brook shuffled the tired deck of cards whilst Simpkin attempted to tally the score.

“So, Emil. Think Byrnes’ll get a second term?” Simpkin muttered, squinting at the score. He glanced up at the American when there was no immediate response.

“No,” Emil Normanson answered carefully. “I think Governor Stassen will win. Most American’s want a change. A Democrats has been in the White House since the Depression.” The American was good company, showing his ability to handle the cards as well as his drink, something Simpkin seemed to be struggling with. Thankfully no one had risen to the bait of the latter’s ever more controversial conversation.

“You sound unhappy.” Simpkin pushed. “Leftie, eh?” Beaumont coughed and stared at his friend, who remained oblivious.

“America needs someone with a broader perspective. I’m not sure Governor Stassen is that man.” Normanson allowed. Contemplating his glass, he took another sip. “This brandy is pretty good.”

“Ah, no politics? Fine, if you want to be boring! Last hand for me, I think,” Simpkin slurred. Beaumont, slightly less drunk, nodded agreement, alerted to the fact his partner could barely speak. It explained his play in the last rubber. After running even for most of the night, they were now close to a hundred pounds down. Brook offered the deck to Simpkin, who cut, and began the final deal.

“Discussing politics and religion is asking for trouble amongst friends,” Normanson said, apparently as clear headed as when he had arrived. “The brandy?”

“’s very nice,” Simpkin agreed drunkenly. “As it’s the last hand, what about our German friends?” The cards froze in Brook’s hand for a moment, and a hush enveloped the table for a few uncomfortable seconds, broken by the click of the cards as he resumed dealing. “Come on chaps, all friends here. ‘s not politics.”

Beaumont stared pointedly at Simpkin but remained silent. Brook pushed the small piles of cards towards the other players and collected his own. Normanson took another sip of brandy and sucked deliberately on his cheroot before collecting his cards, which he started sorting. Simpkin looked around the table, snorted and untidily picked up his cards.

“Germans ‘ave lost a good man,” he said provocatively, disguising a hiccup.

“We’ll just have to see who replaces him,” Beaumont offered reluctantly. “More of the same I suppose.”

“Nonsense!” Simpkin’s attempt to focus on his cards failed and he frowned. Perhaps a slug of brandy would help. He fanned the cards, squinted at the red and black numbers, then looked across at Normanson. “Will Stassen engage with Germany?”

“Hard to say. Perhaps, if he wins big. He’s more open, but he’ll start cautiously. It’s more about Germany. The economy’s a mess, the East an utter disaster. For some reason, they’re intent on provoking Britain.” Simpkin snorted, and the American raised an eyebrow. “Heydrich’s speech, then Goebbels’ fawning defence. It’s ridiculous. They talk about wanting to trade with the world, but they’re going about it in a strange way. The fact is, American doesn’t need Germany.”

The table was silent for an awkward moment. It was a clear attempt to end the conversation, obvious to everyone except Simkin. His eyes narrowed as his cards were dropped to the baize. “I thought the Yanks hated the Empire.”

“Most of us don’t like it,” Normanson admitted. “But Vice President Douglas was quite right when he spoke about German behaviour. The Nazi’s cannot preach to the world when they are murdering millions.”

“Commie propaganda,” Simkin muttered.

“You actually believe that Nathan!” Beaumont said instinctively, a touch of colour drifting above his shirt collar. Brook glanced at his friend and shifted uncomfortable. Simkin was becoming an embarrassment, but he could do nothing – arguing with a drunk dragged you to their level.

“Germany could push Europe to war, and not for the first time!” Normanson said sharply. “Appeasement failed and cost twenty million lives. If Hitler doesn’t fall ill, I doubt Britain signs the armistice because he can’t be trusted. But they did, and now Germany all but owns Europe. God only knows what goes on in the Greater German Reich, but I’ll wager its hell. Their escapades in the East will bring them to their knees.”

“To their knees?” Simpkin interrupted, full of bluster. “Defeated communism. Leaders of continental Europe, as you admit. Friends in the Middle East and Latin America. Asia. I wish Britain were on such knees. The British Empire is crumbling. You can’t say the same for the Reich.”

“If you think that, you are deluded,” Normanson said. He looked hard at Simpkin. “Germany rules Europe through intimidation and bribery. Perhaps Goring and his generals realised the Soviets weren’t as down as the west assumed, and that’s why they offered terms. Perhaps the Brits thought they had no option. It doesn’t mean they were right.”

“Course they were,” Simpkin snapped back sharply, but now there was a hint of doubt. “We’re partners with Germany. Theres differences, but that’s to be expected.” He hiccupped again. “True of any relationship.”

“Partners?” Beaumont said, incredulous.

“Well, we bloody should be. God forbid if Stalin dominated Europe.”

“Hitler and Stalin weren’t too dissimilar. Neither had any qualms about killing their own people,” Normanson said quietly.

“Rubbish,” Simpkin blurted. “Stalin killed anyone he didn’t like. He got what he deserved. Germany ’s got every right to get rid of the miscreants causing trouble.”

“Miscreants?” Normanson said, laying the opening card on the table very deliberately. It was obvious he was on the verge of losing his temper. “Millions of their own people, dead. That’s a lot of miscreants. And their actions in the Middle East and attitude to Israel shows anti-Semitism is government policy.”

“The Palestinians should’ve decided what happened in Palestine. Bloody Jews making trouble,” he added under his breath. He looked at Normanson. “Are you a Jew?”

“Simpkin, what the hell’s gotten into you?” Beaumont snarled, furious. The cards were forgotten, the tension in the air palpable. Brook squared his cards, tense. The table next to them had stopped playing, eyes surreptitiously on the scene as it unfolded. Simpkin glared but said nothing.

“My grandmother is Jewish,” Normanson said mildly. “So yes, I guess I am to an extent. She lost many friends, murdered by the Nazi regime.” The American spoke slowly and softly, but the tone was ominous. “Mark my words, Heydrich could precipitate the worst crisis since 1939. He’s going to need a scapegoat, and soon. The communists, so they claim, are vanquished, so my money is on the Jews being the target once again.”

“You can’t tar a nation because a few Commie sympathisers spread lies about them. Zionist and Communist,” Simpkin almost spat. He threw his cards down, downed his brandy and squared his jaw. Clearly drunk, he was spoiling for a fight.

“Yes, you can! The Nazi’s are rotten to the core. They are an abomination, and they don’t care who they drag down, as long as they’re in control,” Normanson’s voice rose slightly. “If you can’t see that, you are as bad as those idiots who allowed Hitler to do as he pleased in the thirties. That worked out bloody well, didn’t it?”

“You bloody Americans. You sit on your arses, then moan about the outcome,” Simpkin snarled. “And then you criticise Britain. This country needs more Mosley’s and fewer commie sympathisers. And fewer goddamn Jews.” The last few words were uttered before he could stop himself, and Simpkin was suddenly sober. “Oh, er, I…”

“Don’t say another word, Nathan,” Beaumont interrupted. “I’d like you to leave. Now.” He tensed his arms and pushed himself up from his seat.

For a moment, it appeared Simpkin would argue, but after a glance at the table and the room, he reconsidered. “Right. Yes, of course.” He stood and looked at Normanson. “I apologise. Unforgiveable. Staffs, please settle up on my behalf, I’ll talk to you next week. My apologies to all. Good night gentleman.” He pushed his chair back and walked away before anyone could say anything further. There were murmurs from a couple of tables as all eyes followed him as he weaved unsteadily between the tables.

“Emil, I’m so sorry,” Beamont started, but Normanson held up a hand to stop him.

“Not necessary. We all have acquaintances who can embarrass us.” He looked at his empty glass. “Shame to finish the evening like that. How about another brandy and a couple of rounds of three handed crib?”

“Splendid idea,” Brook said and motioned to the waiter. “Not to talk politics again, but I can’t disagree with your reading of the situation Emil.” The American gave a grim nod as he collected the cards and shuffled. The waiter returned with the brandy, and they settled into a new game, keen to put the unseemly scene behind them.

[lordroel]

Sept 29, 2023 13:14:22 GMT horton229 said:

I published an AH novel this year, and am in the process of editing the second book in the series. I am hoping for comments/feedback on a few of the chapters.



Background

- WW2 differences: European War ends in late-1941. Nazis engaged in East, Britain safe and secure

- US does not enter WW2 in Europe.

- 'Today' (1948): Nazis still fighting in the east.



Key changes:

- RN needs to be stronger, so 'Malta' class build but renamed and slight modifications

- Relevant RN aircraft built.

Tagline: Late-40's AH Cold War secret agent thriller

First welcome aboard.

Second, we try to help to give feedback if possible.

[stevep]

  Welcome aboard and congratulations on your sale and the work.

   Well it sounds like Britain gave up its position in the ME if much of it is under Nazi control.  That would be bad given its strategic location and also its oil.  Not sure how this would have happened.  That Hitler died some time in 1941 - which is a good point as I doubt anyone would have trusted him.  Since then Goring has been leader and died and Heydrich has taken over, although I note he is Chancellor rather than Fuhrer.  Possibly that title was retired when Hitler died? - Mind you the bus advert suggest encouraged emigration to much of Africa which seems to include Egypt so that could still be under British control.

  Under those conditions it would be interesting to know the position on the eastern front as without external allies the Soviets would be struggling badly I fear even given the incompetence that the Nazis demonstrated.    Especially since if the Germans have a good chunk of the ME they could have their own secure oil supply and also have another route, albeit logistically bloody tough without a lot of investment, from which to attack Baku and other areas.  Plus under those conditions Turkey might have been pressured into 'alliance' with Germany which would mean the Black Sea is accessible to Axis units.

  Not sure what's happened in the east.  Has Japan fought and been defeated or not fought the western powers, or even joined the war against the Soviets? 

  Britain I suspect has taken a turn to the right but how far is unclear.  Also what is the status of the empire.  I would say that if India hasn't gotten at least dominion status if not heading for independent but possibly with continued close links to Britain - for mutual defence given what's going on - its probably going to be unstable if not very violent and a real resource drain.

  Anyway initial thoughts on the background - of course the other point would be how nuclear research is going in various powers.  Britain could have an advantage here as its not tied into a massive war or blinded by stupid bigotry but close enough to Nazi Europe to feel an incentive for such a massive project - which may not be the case in the US.

  In terms of the writing some good points, such as the bus ads to get information across.  I would say a bit too heavy on descriptions of some of the furnishing and fittings at times but possibly that's just my lack of interest in such things.

  Looking forward to seeing a bit more about TTL and best of luck with the work.  If interested enough I might go for the entire thing.  Did the 1st book cover the TTL war with Germany and possibly this sample is for the planned 2nd book which is set several years later?

  Steve

[Max Sinister]

Are you going to post a timeline, as information? Or do you want readers to find out what happened from reading your book?

[simon darkshade]

I've read the other chapters over on AH.com.

A solid little spy piece that takes a while to get going. In such a case, I'd recommend being a bit freer with both development and little set pieces of tech/gear and action. There should be no sense at all of budget cuts when the Nazis still exist and have Europe; similarly, the supine acceptance of Iraq breaking free of British influence tacks a bit too close to the @ 1950s in a radically different power environment.

As a general rule, the action ratio of a story is proportional (in some respects) to how much you change AND how you throw in tidbits about gear/changes/AH/hat tips to your readers.

An example of this is A Kill in the Morning by Graeme Shimmin, first published on AH.com about 14 years ago, then cleaned up and professionally published. It had a Nazi Empire in the 1960s in a Cold War with Britain, along with a certain sci-fi central object that lead to all manner of timeline shifting. As it had a rollicking plot (literally James Bond without saying the name), it could get away with throwing a few buckets of chum to the audience now and then, such as the Royal Israeli Air Force flying Lightnings, neverwere Vulcans and supersonic airliners.

With less of that at play here, you might consider upping the incidence of action or throw in some more chum.

[stevep]

Oct 1, 2023 2:24:25 GMT simon darkshade said:

I've read the other chapters over on AH.com.

A solid little spy piece that takes a while to get going. In such a case, I'd recommend being a bit freer with both development and little set pieces of tech/gear and action. There should be no sense at all of budget cuts when the Nazis still exist and have Europe; similarly, the supine acceptance of Iraq breaking free of British influence tacks a bit too close to the @ 1950s in a radically different power environment.

As a general rule, the action ratio of a story is proportional (in some respects) to how much you change AND how you throw in tidbits about gear/changes/AH/hat tips to your readers.

An example of this is A Kill in the Morning by Graeme Shimmin, first published on AH.com about 14 years ago, then cleaned up and professionally published. It had a Nazi Empire in the 1960s in a Cold War with Britain, along with a certain sci-fi central object that lead to all manner of timeline shifting. As it had a rollicking plot (literally James Bond without saying the name), it could get away with throwing a few buckets of chum to the audience now and then, such as the Royal Israeli Air Force flying Lightnings, neverwere Vulcans and supersonic airliners.

With less of that at play here, you might consider upping the incidence of action or throw in some more chum.

  Ah so there's an at least semi-independent Iraq.  That clarifies something of the situation in the region.  Thanks.

[horton229]

stevep,
Thanks for the welcome - I will address some of your points but not sure how I can quote properly to align the comments.

1. Middle East: Britain still has significant interest. French possessions (e.g. Syria) are now all but German possessions. Iraq managed to force the British out, and rapidly fell into Naz sphere. The Egyptians & Iranians are hence worried and favour relations with the UK. The book is largely set in Egypt. Israel/Palestine are separate states, with Palestine in the Nazi sphere. Türkiye are trying to stay neutral, but the Black Sea is accessible to Germany.
2. Eastern Front: Soviets still fighting. Mostly partisan/guerrilla actions West of Urals, but the further east you go the tougher it is for the Nazis. This is a MASSIVE drain on Germany. Only the Caucasus and Ukraine areas are producing anything - a bit of oil and food after several years, but the partisans make it hard. Clandestine UK support but not much given the UK's position.
3. Pacific/Japan: US and UK still fight Japan, but Nazis ditch the Japanese after Pearl Harbour having reached terms with UK. That means US not in the European war, and nuclear weapons are not used.
4. UK Politics: Perhaps a bit more right, but not hugely, other than massively strong military given the situation on the continent. It is more that Fascism is not as discredited ITTL, and has a pretence of success (or at least not total hate filled failure). Less is know about the Holocaust. The Empire at this stage still exists, India is closer to Britain.
5. Nuclear research - The first book introduced the character David Brook and is set earlier in 1948. It focused on a potential Nazi nuclear programme, and the first chapter/prologue was Britain testing their first bomb in Australia. The US have the bomb. Not sure if I am allowed to mention the title/link on this site so I will hold off.
6. OK on the style - guess that is a bit of a personal choice thing.

[horton229]

Oct 1, 2023 1:05:57 GMT Max Sinister said:

Are you going to post a timeline, as information? Or do you want readers to find out what happened from reading your book?

I was not planning to post a full timeline - this is more about the book tbh.
However, happy to receive feedback and provide answers to questions as it helps me make sure I am not contradicting myself or making other big mistakes.

[horton229]

Oct 1, 2023 2:24:25 GMT simon darkshade said:

I've read the other chapters over on AH.com.

A solid little spy piece that takes a while to get going. In such a case, I'd recommend being a bit freer with both development and little set pieces of tech/gear and action. There should be no sense at all of budget cuts when the Nazis still exist and have Europe; similarly, the supine acceptance of Iraq breaking free of British influence tacks a bit too close to the @ 1950s in a radically different power environment.

As a general rule, the action ratio of a story is proportional (in some respects) to how much you change AND how you throw in tidbits about gear/changes/AH/hat tips to your readers.

An example of this is A Kill in the Morning by Graeme Shimmin, first published on AH.com about 14 years ago, then cleaned up and professionally published. It had a Nazi Empire in the 1960s in a Cold War with Britain, along with a certain sci-fi central object that lead to all manner of timeline shifting. As it had a rollicking plot (literally James Bond without saying the name), it could get away with throwing a few buckets of chum to the audience now and then, such as the Royal Israeli Air Force flying Lightnings, neverwere Vulcans and supersonic airliners.

With less of that at play here, you might consider upping the incidence of action or throw in some more chum.

Thanks for the comment and feedback.
The chapters on AH.com (and here) are only a selection. In the first book I included some German tech and Berlin Nazi-dream architecture, plus a British atomic bomb. This one has the ITTL 'Malta' class equivalent, and RN jets, plus there is some Kriegsmarine, possibly not shared.
However, I'm a bit reticent to go too far with the tech/gear stuff for fear of putting readers off with too much 'technobabble'.

[horton229]

1. Alexandria, Egypt

“Yoghurt, figs, toast, a pint of iced orange juice and a pot of coffee. Thankyou.” Brook replaced the telephone receiver and slowly lowered his head back to the pillow, rubbing at the dull throb in his temple. “Clever,” he muttered to the empty room, the bitter taste of the penultimate drink a warning he now regretted ignoring. Brook eased his six-foot frame out of bed, ran a hand through his light brown hair and pulled on a terrycloth robe to open the door. The corridor was oddly quiet given it was gone nine – no sign even of the cleaning staff. With a shrug he picked up the newspapers, clicked the door shut and lowered himself into a chair.

Brook opened The Times first and scanned through the major stories. He already knew most of the news, given the newspapers took a few days to reach Egypt, but he read a preview of the upcoming Ashes series with interest. The team had left England on the long voyage south for what promised to be a tight contest. Speculation centred on whether Hedley Verity would break Clarrie Grimmett’s two-decade old record for test wickets, and Bradman’s attempt to pass ten thousand Test runs.

The Egyptian Times was one of the local English language newspapers, and Brook scanned the headlines, dominated by news of a riot in Cairo involving followers of the Free Officers Movement. The article was highly critical of the FOM and Brook frowned as he picked up the final newspaper in the pile, this one in French. The tone was starkly different, as was the conclusion – unknown troublemakers likely infiltrated the peaceful march and attacked the police, causing the violent confrontation. Instinctively Brook felt this more likely as it was out of character for the FOM. Although confrontations between the police and nationalist protestors had increased markedly since Heydrich’s summer speech, the FOM steadfastly refused to endorse violence.

A loud knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and Brook dropped the paper and moved quickly to avoid a repeat of the unpleasant sound. An immaculately dressed waiter started to push the loaded trolley into the room, but Brook raised a hand. “Thanks, I can manage,” he muttered as he pulled the trolley forward, eager to avoid a conversation. The waiter nodded and moved away as Brook closed the door.

He poured and quickly drank a glass of orange juice, refilled the glass, and edged the trolley to the table as he lifted the cover from the toast rack. He bit into the triangle of bread without butter, chewed, swallowed, and repeated, devouring the slice in three quick bites as he pondered the headline. Brook poured a cup of coffee, sighed. He needed to cable home with an update, but progress was slow. He sat, dropped a cube of sugar into the cup, and sat down to eat.

As he spread butter on a slice of toast, he smiled at the thought of the previous evening, largely spent in the company of Grace Rigby. Brook decided with an ironic smile the hangover was entirely her fault. If he had not been enjoying her company, he would doubtless have left the reception earlier. In the weeks since his arrival in Alexandria, their acquaintance had been limited to brief hellos and smiles, but nothing more. A formal introduction before dinner led to a brief conversation before she was dragged away by a friend, and Brook thought that might be the end of it until just after dinner when she asked him to dance. Brook looked up in surprise and she winked and told him she was trying to avoid the attention of one of the consul staff. He rose, happy to help, and they spent the remainder of the evening together.

Grace Rigby was outgoing, beautiful, and smart. She revealed she was working in Alexandria, and casually mentioned her uncle was Admiral Albert Rigby. Rigby was also CNOME, Commander of Naval Operations – Middle East, the most senior Navy officer in the region. Brook attempted to hide his surprise at the revelation, but it explained why she seemed to know a bit more about him than expected. Curious. He would have a chance to quiz her later as she had agreed to meet for lunch.

Brook tuned the wireless to the BBC World Service and listened to the news. The candidates for the upcoming US Presidential election were stepping up campaigning, and the accompanying rhetoric. President Byrnes’s criticism of rumoured German arms shipments to Palestine were also used to insinuate the Republican candidate, Governor Stassen, would be weak on such activities.

Stassen’s response was unexpected strong. Arms shipments to both Israel and Palestine should be banned as they were at odds with the League of Nations Mandate that created the two countries. He added that he believed if British forces left Israel, Palestine would not feel the need to buy arms. In his view, if the League of Nations were not promoting peace, what was its purpose?

Brook emptied the last of the coffee from the pot and frowned as he recalled Emil Normanson’s prediction Stassen would become president, and his concerns. Stassen sounded presidential, and recent pronouncements suggested a more interventionist presidency than expected. His unexpectedly dominant victory in the Republican primary clearly given him the confidence to speak out, calling the American Fascist Party a threat to democracy and the States' Rights Democratic Party racist thugs. Now he was picking a fight with both Britain and Germany and spoke of a desire to expand the already vast spending on the US armed forces should he be elected.

Breakfast finished, Brook pushed the trolley into the corridor and headed for the bathroom. His headache was now a dull tick rather than the pounding of an hour earlier, and the grey-blue eyes staring back over the slightly pointed nose, were mercifully clear. He allowed a rueful smile, ran a hand over his tanned cheek and reached for his razor. Shaved and showered, he donned a lightweight tan suit, thin cotton shirt and a broad Panama hat, then set out for his lunch date. As he walked along the dusty streets, Brook pondered the meeting with Lawrence Belanger that led to him being had sent to Egypt.



It was an unexpectedly wet day, at odds with the glorious summer Britain had enjoyed, and a depressing reminder winter would soon be upon them. Fat raindrops splattered against the windscreen and the air was thick and humid. The Allard’s fan failed to keep him cool, and Brook was pleased to find a parking spot close to the office on Curzon Street. He raised an umbrella, locked the car, and pulled his jacket closed as he walked the hundred yards to Leconfield House.

The cuffs of his trouser were already damp when he offered a quick greeting to the doorman, then he climbed the three flights of stairs, and engaged in a brief conversation with his secretary as she handed over his morning reading. He put a pot of coffee on in the corner of his shared office, smoked a cigarette whilst waiting, then took a cup back to his desk and got stuck into the papers. An hour later, the office air was stuffy with cigarette smoke from the three men all quietly reading. His ashtray contained three cigarette ends and the foil from a new packet.

Concentration wavering, Brook threw the remaining briefing pages on the desk. There was only so much you could write about increasing German influence in French West Africa, but this analyst seemed to have perfected the use of five words when one would suffice. He stood, stretched out his back and glanced out of the window. The rain was easing. He tugged at the stiff catch and pushed the window open, to allow fresh air into the room.

“Good idea,” Tom Branson said. He rolled his neck with a crack. “It’s a bit quiet.”

“Bloody hell Tom,” Charles Cartwright protested. “Don’t jinx it!”

Brook smiled, but it was hard to disagree. He was about to retake his seat when the intercom buzzed. He looked pointedly at Branson and clicked the switch and Carol, their shared secretary, informed him he was to head up to the seventh floor.

“You bloody idiot,” Brook said playfully, as the man held up his hands. In truth, Branson and Cartwright watched with some envy as Brook dropped his unread reports into his top drawer, locked it and left the office with a wave. He handed the finished reports read to Carol who would pass them on to the next victim and jauntily walked up the stairs to the top floor where the head of the service kept his office. A left turn at the top of the stairwell took him towards the south-west corner, and through the windows of the doors to the terrace, the grey sky continued to leak over Green Park. “Morning, Colleen,” Brook said. “Rotten day. Winter’s coming.”

“Hello David,” Ms. Symonds said, and gave him a stern look. “It’s still summer! You’re eager today. Bit quiet?” He stared at her, but she gave nothing away. A pretty redhead, around thirty, but with the manner and authority of someone older, confident in their abilities. The confidence was well placed – she was good at her job, protecting her boss from unnecessary interruptions of which there were usually plenty. She pressed a button to connect the intercom. “Mr. Brook is here, sir.”

“Send him in.”

She released the switch, her dark brown eyes flicking to a diary. She nodded at the door. “In you go. He has something in fifty minutes. If you can try to keep him on track...” She trailed off, shaking her head slightly as David raised his eyebrows.

“Thanks, Colleen.”

Brook tapped on the door and waited until he heard the sharp call to enter. A light on Ms. Symonds desk flicked red – no interruptions. She reached for the telephone as Brook pulled the door behind him and strode towards the large desk. Lawrence Belanger waved him to the seat opposite and nudged the ashtray forward, a signal he could smoke. “Good morning, David. How’s things? Good leave I trust. Plenty of golf?”

“Good morning, sir. I'm fine thank you. And yes, and excellent week. Few days in Scotland. Managed to get out most days. The Old Course, Carnoustie. Rather tough in the wind. And you, sir?” Brook took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette and offered the case across the desk.

“Lucky bloody you,” Belanger said, shaking his head. He did not really begrudge Brook his time off. He grinned. “Not enough. Can't break six.” He referred to his golf handicap which stubbornly remained unchanged for a second year. “Too busy. How about you, much on?”

“Nothing too important, sir. Reading about the Germans and Francophone Africa. Riveting stuff.” Brook answered evenly. He hoped the conversation might offer something more interesting. It was three months since his return from Germany following the atomic research project, and he was itching to get his teeth into something.

“Know much about money?”

Brook shrugged. “The physical stuff, or managing it?”

“The former.”

“I know it when I see it.”

“I wonder?” Belanger said mysteriously. He pulled a manilla folder from his desk and slid it across the desk. Brook reached forward, pulled it towards him and opened the flap. He smiled. Four banknotes in cellophane. They were Egyptian, one pound and five pound in denomination. He lit the cigarette and picked up the notes in turn. The front of the one pound was largely blue and contained a mix of Arabic and Roman script. A pair of circles framed the words One Egyptian Pound, one pure white the other a sepia Tutankhamun mask. The reverse was green with an archaeological scene between similar circles, one white, the other containing a number one. The five pound was a similar colour, but the King replaced the pharaoh. Brook glanced across the desk.

“Thoughts?”

“I suppose there’s something wrong with them, sir. Counterfeit?”

“Rather good ones apparently,” Belanger said with nod. “Excellent paper and ink, the plates top quality.” He retrieved the notes and glanced at them, pushed the two fakes back, and Brook picked them up as Belanger explained the faults. “They arrived at the consulate in Alexandria. A note, written by a modestly educated Frenchman apparently, said there were boxes of them coming to Egypt. And they were fake.”

“Boxes of them?” Brook said. “How would a modestly educated Frenchman know they were fake?”

“That’s a good question,” Bellanger said. “The other question is, why send them to the consulate.”

“Hmm, I see what you mean sir,” Brook muttered. “Where do I fit in?”

“It might surprise you to know that although the National Bank of Egypt issues the currency, they don’t print it. In fact, British companies print their banknotes and mint their coins. The Egyptians are talking to the Bank of England about new banknote design.” He waved a hand at the notes. “To stop this sort of thing! Anyway, about two months ago they announced they wanted to print the new notes themselves. National pride and all that. The Foreign Office and Bank of England advised against, but they’re adamant. Now, we’re getting information Egypt is about to be flooded with counterfeit money.”

“I see, sir,” Brook allowed slowly. “The timing is, er, inconvenient.”

“Or convenient!” Bellanger said pointedly. “There’s been an uptick in anti-British sentiment. Not just in Egypt, mind, but throughout the Middle East. You’ve seen the briefings on the trouble in Cairo, Alexandria, Tehran, and Tel Aviv in recent weeks.” He looked at Brook, who nodded. “It’s bloody Heydrich’s speech. The nationalists are all over it, griping about colonialism. There not even a dominion, they’re independent.” Belanger noted the twitch in Brook’s eyebrows. “Ostensibly independent. It’s not our fault the King can override parliament when he wants.” He paused. “It’s not a good time. Can you imagine the furore if there is a glut of fake money? The economy will crash. It’ll get out the money is printed here. The nationalists will be all over it, claiming we’re sending them inferior products. Never mind the NBE didn’t want to print the stuff. Your job, officially, is to represent the Bank of England. Assess the printers, tell them what they need to do to get up to snuff. If the counterfeits appear, you’ll formally investigate.”

“That’s fine, sir,” Brook said dubiously. “But I’m not qualified to pass judgement.”

“You’ve appointments with the Bank and the printers all next week. Crash course in printing money, spotting counterfeits, security features, all that. Enough to pass as a bureaucrat, who defers anything controversial to London. While you’re there, you can investigate these nationalist groups in your spare time.” So that was it! Belanger grinned, taking Brook’s nod as agreement. “There’s been no reports of fake notes yet, but it might be useful to have someone on the ground when it happens. And you speak a bit of Arabic. Might help.”

Brook nodded dubiously, although the prosect of a trip away as the weather turned was not altogether unappealing. “Pretty rusty, sir.”

“You’ll dust it off. Doesn’t have to be perfect. You’ll be representing the Bank, so they won’t expect it. Look Brook, the Foreign Secretary told me the cabinet are terrified of what might happen after Iraq. They got rid of us and turned into a Nazi puppet within a couple of years. We can’t afford the same to happen in Egypt. At some point, we’ve got to stop interfering,” he allowed as he looked across the desk. “It’s making sure it’s the right people. This Free Officers lot seem reasonable. And they’re well organised. But if some fanatics like the Islamic Liberation League take over, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Understood, sir,” Brook said. “And the extension to the thirty-six Treaty hasn’t helped. The government said no, and the King signed anyway.”

“Quite! But we can’t be seen to retreat if there are riots raging in Cairo or Alex, and the nationalists are claiming we’ve crashed the economy. Let’s be honest, we can’t lose the new base in Alex, or access to Suez. Malta’s fine, but the only other bases in the Med are Gib, which is miles from the action, and Israel, which isn’t big enough to host anything bigger than a frigate. Egypt is critical.”

“Of course, sir,” Brook said with a nod. “It’s a bit flimsy, sir. Might be a wild goose chase.”

“It might. Can’t be helped,” Belanger said with a frown. “I’d bet the German’s are behind this. There were rumours they were working on it during the war, but someone fell out with Heydrich before he got promoted. It’s the perfect oblique attack.” Belanger glanced at his watch. “Talk to Ms. Symonds about your appointments next week. She’ll get the travel arrangements sorted with your girl. Any questions?”

“No sir,” Brook said, rising to leave.

“Oh, one more thing,” Belanger said, and Brook paused, hand poised on the door handle. “It’s not been announced yet, but the canal will be shut for a week in November. Carrier deployment to the Indian Ocean. It’s lousy timing, but it might also be useful in terms of making nationalists a bit more brazen. Or careless. We need to figure out who we can work with.”



As Brook turned the corner and approached the hotel where he was meeting Grace, he considered how he had left things with Belanger – his aim was to stop the counterfeit notes from getting into circulation, but if it proved impossible, he was to remain in Egypt for as long as it made sense to do so. He walked up the long drive, nodded to the doorman who held the door, and wandered through the lobby towards the bar. He found a seat facing the entrance, ordered a drink and watched the room whilst he waited for his lunch date to arrive. She arrived ten minutes early, and he stood and pecked the offered cheek.

“Hello Grace. Good to see you so soon. Drink?”

“Hello David. A glass of champagne?” She smiled broadly, her long dark blonde hair draped over the shoulders of her pale blue cotton dress, green eyes sparkling. Brook waved at the waiter, ordered two glasses, and signalled they were ready to go to their table. The drinks arrived and they talked about the previous evening for a few minutes until the maître d' strode over and escorted them to their table.

“So, why Alexandria? I know you said you were working here,” Brook asked as the waiter removed the last of the plates and the sipped the last of the wine. A fan rotated slowly above them, circulating the warm air.

“Daddy got me a job. Through Uncle Bertie.” Grace paused for a moment, shrugging slightly. “Chance to get away for a bit.”

“Get away?”

“Hmmm, well, I was sort of engaged.” She noticed the look on Brook’s face. “OK, I was engaged. To what I thought was a very nice, but exceedingly duuulllll chap. A banker, so perhaps I should’ve expected it. No offence.” She looked at him and smirked. Brook’s eyes narrowed. He could not remember talking about his reason for being in Alexandria. “We’d been engaged for about a year, and it all just started to be such hard work. I wanted to work; he wasn’t keen.” She looked at Brook defensively. “Anyway, I spoke to mother, she told father. I said something like I couldn’t stand the thought of that being my life forever. They said if that’s how I felt I should break off the engagement because it wasn’t fair to either of us. So, I did. That was a couple of months ago. His family were furious, accused me of being, well, accused me of all sorts of horrible things. Daddy was away, but Uncle Bertie happened to be at home on leave. Did a bit of sorting. Anyway, he said it might be a good idea to go away for a bit. Let the dust settle sort of thing. The next day he’d found me something to do over here. I’ve been here a couple of months.”

“That sounds rather unpleasant,” Brook said sympathetically. “Very understanding. Your parents I mean. Quite right too. Not sure your ex-fiancé sounds up to much. Lord, I’m sorry.” He held up a hand of apology and appraised her. “How old are you?” The raised eyebrows and smirk were as good as a soft slap round the face. “Bugger. What the hell is wrong with me? Sorry. What work did you do?” Brook said, hoping he was on safer ground.

“I was at Bletchley.” The look of surprise on Brook’s face prompted a frown. “There’s lots of women I’ll have you know. Some of the girls are very smart. I speak German, studied mathematics. Joined when the war started. I rather enjoyed it.”

“Are you meant to tell me that?”

“Oh, I suppose not. But you’re trustworthy. I can tell.” She paused, and added mysteriously, “you know more secrets than me, I’m sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Grace answered and finished her wine. “But I know bankers, and you’re no banker! Anyway, thanks for lunch, but I’m meeting a friend at five and I need to change.”

“Hold on,” Brook protested. “You can’t blurt something like that and run out on me,” Brook said with more uncertainty than intended. His lack of control was amplified when he stood as she did.

“Oh, but I can. I’ll tell you next time. Dinner perhaps…” Once again, she offered her cheek, then winked and disappeared. Brook slumped back into his seat. The only consolation was, given she had worked at Bletchley, he knew she was trustworthy.

[stevep]

   Interesting. Grace is definitely up to something. Given how secret Bletchley Park was OTL and that its probably even more so now with the Germans undefeated and a major threat and also hopefully still using Enigma I'm not sure she would actually mention it, or that even someone in Brook's line of work would know about it, especially not in a fairly public place like that.  However otherwise interesting background development and tells me more about what's happening in the world.  

  Sounds like Stassen is probably going to become US President and will be a difficult character for everybody.

  Damn just noticed you responded to my post as well and I missed it. - Sounds an interesting background.  Surprised that Germany and the Soviets are still slogging away after all this time but then probably neither side would risk trusting the other or offer a deal the other would find acceptable.  Dread the idea of what the death toll is in the European USSR region!  I wonder if the US is possibly aiding them by the Pacific route? 

  With Japan defeated and Russia so much on the back foot what happened in China?  In this scenario and especially with Britain freed of the war in Europe that the KMT might have won there but they could also be awkward for everybody if they wished. - Mind you if this is intended to be a series that could be the plot for a later book.

  Many thanks.

  Steve

[lordroel]

Oct 1, 2023 14:34:30 GMT horton229 said:

However, I'm a bit reticent to go too far with the tech/gear stuff for fear of putting readers off with too much 'technobabble'.

There is always the route of creating a thread for the author ore people to discuses these kind of things without the need to put it in a novel, ore in Nick Sumner case when he wrote the Drake Drum series, a entire Appendices filled with ships to tanks who roam his universe

[horton229]

Oct 1, 2023 18:45:55 GMT lordroel said:

Oct 1, 2023 14:34:30 GMT horton229 said:

Yeah, I've seen the Drake's Drum threads and website. I am not good enough with photoshop to produce such an array of images and information. And tbh I am more interested in the writing.

[horton229]

Oct 1, 2023 18:40:33 GMT stevep said:

   Interesting. Grace is definitely up to something. Given how secret Bletchley Park was OTL and that its probably even more so now with the Germans undefeated and a major threat and also hopefully still using Enigma I'm not sure she would actually mention it, or that even someone in Brook's line of work would know about it, especially not in a fairly public place like that.  However otherwise interesting background development and tells me more about what's happening in the world.  

  Sounds like Stassen is probably going to become US President and will be a difficult character for everybody.

  Damn just noticed you responded to my post as well and I missed it. - Sounds an interesting background.  Surprised that Germany and the Soviets are still slogging away after all this time but then probably neither side would risk trusting the other or offer a deal the other would find acceptable.  Dread the idea of what the death toll is in the European USSR region!  I wonder if the US is possibly aiding them by the Pacific route? 

  With Japan defeated and Russia so much on the back foot what happened in China?  In this scenario and especially with Britain freed of the war in Europe that the KMT might have won there but they could also be awkward for everybody if they wished. - Mind you if this is intended to be a series that could be the plot for a later book.

  Many thanks.

  Steve

Thanks for the reply, and the feedback on Bletchley. I might take a look at this, although I reference it in later conversations between the two characters so might be quite an extensive rewrite. Perhaps I'll be a bit more opaque.
I expect Brook might visit the new China with the KMT alive and well. I have plans for stories in Iran and Southern Europe.