In a dark corner of a popular Berlin restaurant, Konservative Deputy Pietr Van Rensselaer sat across from Jakob Dempewolf, the chief Deputy of the Catholic ZentrumPartei.
“Can you believe he abrogated our treaty with Spain?!” Dempewolf asked. “I hear Karl Anton flew into a rage!” He chuckled, imagining. King Carlos Antonio had been a Prussian Hohenzollern prince before Wilhelm’s grandfather, Konig Wilhelm I, placed him upon the vacated Spanish throne to ensure that nation’s loyalty to Prussia. The arrangement had survived more than 30 years, but had come to an end at the beginning of the Spanish-American War.
“I can’t say,” Rensselaer opined, “that I would have counseled differently, considering our handicaps and the mood of the world toward us. War with the United States today, even with France and Spain as allies, would put fear in the heart of a lion.”
Setting his liquor glass back on the table, Dempewolf shook his head. “Yet he risks it still with this adventure we hear about in Panama.”
Rensselaer exhaled in frustration, and frowned. “I don’t know what Holstein is thinking,” he said, referring to his replacement at the Foreign Office. “Or Eulenburg, or
whosever bad idea this was. I counseled against it, in my day, yet here we sit.” He took a long draw from his brandy snifter. His companion remained silent, enabling him to go on. “We couldn’t afford to back up our Spanish allies because our military strength is tied down in Africa, Arabia, the East Indies… Yet even so, we contemplate provoking one of the only world powers who can truly rival us by committing troops to a new endeavor near their shores!”
“The Reichstag would never approve it, if asked,” Dempewolf said. “I wonder if there is a way to make use of our foreknowledge to put political pressure on him to back off.”
Rensselaer shook his head. “Not without accusations of disloyalty or treason. And it would compromise my sources in the Foreign Ministry, our spies on the scene in Panama and, presuming we could not stop the operation, it would put our own soldiers in far more danger.” Circumspect, Rensselaer avoided mentioning, even to his friend and ally, his primary source of inside knowledge. “And it
would be disloyal. I will not be a party to anything of the sort.”
Their conversation drifted toward a close, and Rensselaer referred to his pocketwatch. “I must be going, I’m afraid. There are still some papers I must go over before our session in the morning.”
“Of course,” Dempewolf agreed. “I must go over some things as well. Take care of yourself, my friend.” He stood and gathered his things, then headed for the door.
Rensselaer finished one last bite from his plate, and emptied the last of his glass. Donning his frock coat, he offered hearty thanks to the waitress as she bade him a good night on his way to the front.
A midsize and handsome, but hard-eyed young man stepped out from an alcove into Rensselaer’s path. Rensselaer halted, as the blood drained from his face.
“Prince Van Rensselaer,” the man said with a sly smile – half greeting, half accusation.
“General von Grolitz,” Rensselaer acknowledged, regarding the man warily. Count Adar von Grolitz was Kaiser Wilhelm’s Inspector General, and although at 35 years old he was absurdly young to be a military general, or an inspector general for that matter, an inspector general was to be addressed by the title of general. Wilhelm had unwisely vested him with whatever authority von Grolitz felt like he needed at whichever moment.
“I happened to overhear some of what you said over there,” he baited, gazing toward Rensselaer’s table.
That was impossible, Rensselaer knew, unless Grolitz had literally been hiding in the woodwork. Yet, he could hardly discount that.
“I am concerned that you might take actions that would be detrimental to our foreign policy plans.”
Rensselaer smiled, coldly. “Then you must have missed where I said it would be wrong for us to interfere.”
Von Grolitz smiled, thinly. “Still…” He leaned in to whisper, confidentially. “If you do anything to hinder our operations, you can be assured that I will personally see you spend the rest of your days in Spandau.” His voice was clipped and cold. Threatening. He referred, of course, to Berlin’s largest, most infamous prison.
“How
dare you threaten me!” Rensselaer spat. Shaking his finger heatedly, he said, “You are a testament to exactly what is wrong with this government today.” The old man regained his control, and blew out a breath to steady himself. “I hope to see your back one day soon. Prussia will be the better for it.” He muscled past the wiry fellow.
“I will find those spies you have in the Wilhelmstrasse,” he called after him.
As he pushed his way angrily into the street, Rensselaer thanked God that he had not been so unwise as to mention that he had a spy even within Wilhelm’s own cabinet.
