Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [213]
Blanchard flustered. He had never received such a tongue-lashing by an Army man. “You, General, intend to foster world tension to justify huge military expenditures. I know all about this goddamned country club you’re running.”
“I’m a man in my sixties,” Hansen said softly. “I have $1800 in the bank. In thirty years in the service my wife has had twenty-one places she has called home ... but we know why we are in Berlin. And I also know why you are in Berlin.
“You don’t want to leave here knowing why America must stay because that might make you unpopular in your state. I’m dealing with the same deaf man I dealt with before the war. But don’t think we can leave Berlin, free. We will pay for it with ten thousand per cent interest.
“You’re in a fight, Blanchard, because I’ve got a press corps here who knows what we are trying to do and you start on us and you’ll get it right between the eyes.”
The car passed on the southern circumference of the park holding the Olympic stadium and sports complex, where Hitler once attempted to prove Aryan superiority on the playing fields.
The two men had no more to say.
At the north end of the Olympic Park, the sports administration building now was the location of British Headquarters. A glum Adam Blanchard lit up as the British honor guard came to attention and the band played a “fanfare for a dignified occasion.”
He emerged from the car, walked toward ramrod stiff, swagger stick-bearing Hardy Fitz-Roy and pumped his hand, slapped his back, and waved at the guard as though he were soliciting their votes.
Chapter Thirty-seven
NEAL HAZZARD PACED THE living room of Sean’s apartment angrily. “What the hell is the matter with General Hansen? Is he blind or something?”
“He is being hampered by a little system known as democracy,” Sean answered.
“What about the threat of blockade? Why doesn’t he know?”
“He knows. But he can’t do anything until it is imposed. You know how it is, pal. The military cry ‘wolf’ and no one believes them. The only way it will be believed is when Berlin gets its Pearl Harbor.”
Hazzard shook his head. “We have to stand here flat-footed waiting for the Russians to belt us.”
“That’s because we represent a society dictated by public opinion.”
Hazzard had chewed his cigar beyond mercy, flung it into the fireplace. “Sean. I think I know the people of Berlin as well as anyone.”
“I’ll buy that.”
“They’ve got strong nerves. If we could only give them our guarantee that we are going to stay.”
“We can’t do that, Neal.”
“I know the Russians too. I know them from two hundred and fifty-eight meetings of the Kommandatura with Nikolai Trepovitch. They’ll quit short of a fight.”
“That’s no secret.”
“Goddammit, I’m going on RIAS and tell the people of Berlin this garrison is staying.”
“Neal, for Christ’s sake. If you do guess wrong you can commit us to a bad situation.”
“I’m an old infantryman, Sean. I know that when the battle gets so screwed up the generals behind the lines can’t control it, a few men in the thick of it have to improvise.”
Sean had once stood in Neal Hazzard’s shoes in Rombaden ready to face the wrath of the world for something he believed. He was a soul mate. If there was one single thing that being an American meant to Sean it was the ability to think for one’s self. Not in times of comfort, but under nerve-wracking stress. Hazzard knew he was right. Sean believed it too.
“You’ve got a partner,” Sean said. “How do we do this?”
“I’m going to go over to RIAS and make the announcement right away.”
“With the right moves,” Sean thought aloud, “we can dump Hollweg as Oberburgermeister and stop the Russians for long enough to clean the Adam Blanchard stink.”
“Like my old pal T. E. Blatty says ... let’s get cracking.”
At the invisible boundary between the American and British sectors on Kufsteiner Strasse 69 on Innsbrucker Platz stood a five-story,