Re: Blood and Iron

The lamps in Bruno's office cast a soft amber glow over the shelves and maps, the air faint with the scent of brandy and paper.

Outside, Berlin's night hummed faintly; the city never truly slept.

Heidi sat curled in the leather chair opposite his desk, a glass in hand, her eyes fixed on him over the rim.

Bruno leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before speaking.

"Roosevelt's withdrawal from the Allies has bought him some popularity with the people," he said, voice even but edged with distaste.

"His negotiations to end the war in the Philippines, a war he inherited from the last fools, has restored a measure of trust. Especially since he survived an assassination attempt by those terrorists over there. People love a survivor."

Heidi tilted her head slightly. "But you don't think it will be enough?"

Bruno's mouth twisted faintly. "Enough? No, but it will carry weight. Unfortunately, the war in Spain still lingers in the minds of American voters. Thousands of their sons died in that farce, and they won't easily forgive him for it. They may not believe his promises to keep them out of foreign wars again."

She sipped her drink, considering. "And yet… you've never been one to leave matters to chance. You've been… what do they say? Diversifying your investments?"

He looked at her over the rim of his glass, the faintest glimmer in his eyes.

"Honey... do you even need to ask? I've been buying influence in America since the turn of the century. Industry, press, shipping lines, banks. I own pieces of their world they don't even realize are mine."

"And yet," she said, a faint smile curling her lips, "you're still worried."

"Fate," he said flatly, "seems to favor Roosevelt. No matter how much money I throw at the issue, it doesn't seem to resolve itself...."

Heidi leaned forward slightly, resting her glass on his desk. "Then perhaps the answer isn't more money."

Bruno arched a brow. "Go on."

"Men like Roosevelt thrive on the image of inevitability," she said. "Break that illusion. Find the crack, and people will stop believing he's untouchable."

Bruno's gaze lingered on her, the corners of his mouth pulling into something between a smile and a smirk. "You really are the perfect wife...."

She lifted her glass again, meeting his eyes. "Don't you forget it."

The clink of crystal was the only sound for a long moment, the quiet weight of political calculus settling between them like a third presence in the room.

---

The campaign headquarters was a converted brownstone on a quiet street, chosen for privacy as much as convenience.

Rain pattered against the windows, and the air smelled faintly of coffee gone cold.

A map of the United States covered the far wall, dotted with pins in red and blue. Around the long table, Roosevelt's senior advisors sat in various states of fatigue and frustration.

The man himself occupied the head seat, wheelchair angled just so, cigarette holder tilted upward in his hand.

"Bruno von Zehntner," one of the younger aides said, stabbing a finger toward a stack of reports.

"We can't pin down the extent of it, but he's everywhere. Newspapers, shipping, railroads, half the manufacturing in Chicago, hell, even some of the steel mills in Pittsburgh have his fingerprints on them."

An older strategist rubbed at his eyes. "We have suspected for years he's been buying into American industry. We've never been able to prove how deep the connections run, foreign intermediaries, front companies, all perfectly legal on paper."

Roosevelt tapped ash into the tray, expression unreadable. "So he's decided he doesn't care for my administration. And?"

"And," the younger man pressed, "he's quietly bankrolling your opponent. Not just money, but editorial control as well. He's bending headlines without anyone realizing the bend."

A silence fell, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock.

Roosevelt finally spoke, voice calm. "I don't care how much he owns. This is still my election to lose. And I don't intend to lose."

The older strategist glanced up. "Sir, this isn't like running against a man. This is running against a shadow. You can't land a punch on him, because he's not here."

FDR's jaw tightened. "Then we make him come here."

"How?" the younger aide asked.

Roosevelt gave a thin smile. "We make him believe the one thing he doesn't have is slipping from his grasp. And when he reaches for it—" he closed his hand into a fist "—that's when we close the trap."

Outside, the rain intensified, running in rivulets down the glass, blurring the lights of the capital beyond.

---

The courier arrived just past midnight, a slim leather case tucked under one arm, the Reich's eagle stamped in black wax across the seal.

He waited in the outer study while Heidi, already in her night robe, leaned in the doorway to watch Bruno break it open.

Inside was a single folded letter, written on fine cream stock, the kind embassies used when they wanted the recipient to feel important.

Bruno read in silence, eyes moving at a steady pace, no flicker of expression betraying his thoughts.

When he finished, he set the page down beside the half-empty decanter and poured himself another glass.

"Well?" Heidi asked.

He took a long sip before answering. "The Americans want a private meeting. Off the books. In Bern."

"Bern?" She stepped into the room. "Neutral ground."

"Neutral," he agreed, the word carrying just enough dryness to curdle milk.

He handed her the letter. "They claim it's to discuss trade arrangements, post-election contingencies. Nothing binding, just… conversation."

Heidi scanned the page, brow furrowing. "It's bait."

"Oh, of course its bait." Bruno lowered himself into the armchair, glass cradled loosely in one hand.

"They're hoping to lure me into their theater, make me play on their stage, under their lights. Which means they think they have a script I can't resist."

She set the letter back on the desk. "Do they?"

Bruno's gaze shifted toward the rain-slick window.

The streetlamps outside burned pale in the mist, their glow catching in his eyes. "Not yet. But they'll try to convince me they do. That's the interesting part."

He let the silence stretch, the tick of the clock marking each thought.

"If I go, they'll think they've caught me between needing something and fearing something. If I don't, they'll take it as proof they've rattled me."

Heidi crossed to the sideboard, poured herself a drink, and leaned against the desk. "So you're considering it."

"I'm considering whether it's more useful to step into their snare… or to send them a gift instead."

"A gift?"

Bruno smiled faintly. "Something they'll think is me stepping in… until they pull the rope and find only the shadow."

He set his glass down, the crystal ringing softly against the wood.

"Either way, they'll show me what game they think they're playing. And then—"

He leaned back, eyes half-lidded in thought "—I'll change the rules."

---

The Oval Office was thick with cigarette smoke, the winter air outside doing nothing to cut the heat from the cluster of men leaning over the President's desk.

"He's agreed," the Secretary of State announced, tapping the telegram for emphasis. "Bern, ten days from now. His own wording confirms it, Bruno von Zehntner will attend personally."

A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the room.

Roosevelt leaned back, adjusting his spectacles, the cigarette holder poised between two fingers.

"Then we have our opening. Gentlemen, this is where we begin writing the terms before he even sets foot in Switzerland."

The Secretary of War smirked.

"I still say it's poetic, pulling him into neutral ground, making him dance without his armies at his back. We can box him in with half a dozen proposals, each one a step closer to binding him publicly."

An aide too young to hide his eagerness spoke up. "And if he balks, we leak the record. Make him look unreasonable to the neutral nations. Let them see him as the warmonger, the one who refuses peace."

Roosevelt nodded slowly. "Precisely. He's walked into our arena. Now, every spotlight is ours."

From the far end of the table, the Treasury Secretary cleared his throat. "Then I suppose now is the time to tell you there's been… a development."

The room stilled.

"A development?" Roosevelt asked.

"Yes, sir." The man slid a sheet of paper across the table.

"Our financial desk just confirmed that over the last seventy-two hours, several major American steel and shipping firms, ones with indirect ties to the administration, have had substantial ownership quietly bought out. The buyers are… shell companies. Registered in Uruguay, Argentina, even Canada. But the trail leads back to holdings we know are controlled by Zehntner's European trust."

The young aide frowned. "So what? He's been buying up American industry for decades."

The Treasury Secretary's voice was dry. "These companies are the same ones contracted to handle the logistics of our Pacific fleet expansion next spring. Without them, we… can't move half the material we've promised the Navy."

Roosevelt's cigarette paused mid-turn in its holder.

The Secretary of War muttered, "He's already moved a piece before we've even set the board."

The Secretary of State shifted uncomfortably. "Gentlemen, I don't think Bern is the trap we think it is."

Roosevelt's eyes narrowed, the first trace of unease settling in. "No," he said slowly. "It would seem the man intends to negotiate with one hand… while the other is already on our throat."