January 14, 1633
Anse looked up in surprise. It was early in the morning for one of the young Germans whom Ed Piazza had started assembling as part of his staff to be hand-delivering him a note. Or for anyone to be delivering a note at all. Ed's staff were no slouches. The secretary of state had several uptimers working with him also, of course, but he'd made it a point to incorporate down-timers as soon and as extensively as possible.
Anse didn't know this one by name, although he recognized him. A former student at the university at Jena, he thought. Eddie Junker—that was his name. Piazza tended to favor recruits from there, partly because Jena was not much more than fifteen miles away, and partly because Grantville had made it a point to develop relations with Jena that were as close as their relations with Badenburg.
Anse wasn't privy to the discussions in the inner circles, but he knew the general plan was to develop Jena into central Germany's premier educational and medical center. It made sense. Given the nature of its West Virginian topography, there simply wasn't room in Grantville—in the whole Ring of Fire, for that matter—to expand all that much. The town was already jammed with immigrants, and people were starting to build on hillside areas that Anse himself thought were questionable at best.
As he opened the note, Anse couldn't help grinning. However much the down-timers in the area were adapting to American custom, in many ways, the reverse was also happening. The note was just a three-way folded piece of paper, but the embossed wax seal keeping it closed was as ornate and fancy as you could ask for.
The message was short, to the point—and surprising.
Dear Mr. Hatfield:
The Secretary of State requests that you consult with him regarding your upcoming expedition to Suhl. Today at 14:00, if possible.
Jamie Lee Swisher
for Ed Piazza
Anse folded the note back up and nodded to the courier. "Tell him I'll be there, as requested." A moment later the young man was gone.
In some ways, of course, Ed Piazza was not adapting. The secretary of state could just as easily have required Anse to show up when he wanted to see him, and no "if possible" about it. But one of the reasons Piazza had made such a successful and popular high school principal for so many years was his meticulous attention to simple courtesy.
Anse himself was too old to know personally, but rumor had it that even when Piazza had been chewing out some wayward student, he'd been as polite as possible. Which Anse himself certainly wouldn't have been. Do as I tell you, you little snot, or I'll whup your ass was more his style in such affairs.
"Wonder what it's about?" he mused.
He found himself wondering a lot more, after he was ushered into Piazza's private office that afternoon. In fact, it was all he could do to keep his eyebrows from crawling onto his scalp.
Piazza wasn't there alone. Also in the office—a bit crammed, in fact, since it wasn't all that big—were President Stearns, General Jackson, and Rebecca Abrabanel. Mike Stearns was smiling blandly; Jackson was frowning. The solemn look on Becky's face made it clear that she was here in her official capacity as the national security adviser, not Mike's wife.
"Have a seat, Anse," said Piazza. As soon as he'd done so, the secretary of state nodded at Stearns.
"As you've probably figured out, my invitation was something of a subterfuge. It's really Mike who wants to talk to you."
"Sure is," Anse heard Jackson mutter. Becky shot him a look that seemed to combine reproof with exasperation.
Stearns chuckled softly. "As you'll soon discover, there is dissension and dispute in the top ranks of what passes for our august government. Here's the thing, Anse." Mike nodded toward Jackson. "Frank here thinks what von Dantz suggested that Kagg ought to do in Suhl is just fine. Go down there and hammer any bastards who are selling guns to our enemies. But Becky has strong reservations about the project. So does Melissa Mailey, for what it's worth. Between the two of them, they've convinced me that the situation is a lot more complicated than it looks."
"What's `complicated' about it?" demanded Jackson. "Treason is treason."
Anse was surprised to see Becky almost snarling at him. The young Sephardic woman, in his experience, was usually imperturbable and serene.
"Idiot words that mean nothing!" she snapped. "What does `treason'—or `loyalty'—mean in Germanies that are not a nation and never have been? And loyalty to a Swedish king? Are we speaking of the same Swedes who conquered the area and behaved every bit as abominably as Tilly's army or Wallenstein's in the territories they occupied?"