September 30, 1943
Erich Koch scowled, his fat cheeks going red behind his mustache. Every day, the reports were full of disaster. While the aristocratic swine of the General Staff lapped up promotions and praise for their sweep across America, he was stuck with the real work.
Goebbels trumpeted the capture of a million American soldiers to the world. Meanwhile, Koch was stuck with transporting them to camps. What in God's name could he do with a million prisoners? Every day, there were escapes, rebellions, mutinies. He'd attempted to sort out the Jews and other undesirables from the prisoners, but the Americans perversely destroyed their dogtags or shuffled them around. Most of the dedicated SS troops were deployed on the front lines. His garrison was regular Army, and his orders to savagely punish the prisoners for this insubordination were routinely 'lost'.
His men would locate military storehouses, only to find they'd been cleaned out. In the north, escaped GIs and savage Indians waged a guerrilla war. In the cities, the worthless refuse, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, they spat on his soldiers, vandalized his banners and posters, assassinated his collaborators.
Koch grinned savagely as he looked at the telegram in his hand.
"KOCH- I HAVE SPOKEN WITH THE FUHRER REGARDING YOUR REQUESTS.
1- PERMISSION TO INTERN POPULATION OF LONG ISLAND IS GRANTED. TROOPS TO BE ALLOCATED BY 10 NOVEMBER.
2- PERMISSION TO INTERN POPULATION NORTH OF ALBANY IS GRANTED. TROOPS TO BE ALLOCATED BY 20 OCTOBER.
3- PERMISSION TO DESTROY ALL BUILDINGS IN MANHATTAN GRANTED WITH FOLLOWING EXCEPTIONS:
-ALL STRUCTURES IN CENTRAL PARK
-ALL MUSEUMS OF ART
4- PERMISSION TO DESTROY BRIDGES FROM MANHATTAN DENIED.
Koch scowled at the last. Really, he'd only thrown it in as a bargaining point, but he did want to remove those bridges.
He went to his window, looking down on Manhattan from his office in the Empire State Building. He grinned. Soon, this nest of vermin would only be a memory... and in its place, a vast park, dedicated to the health of an America cleansed of its rabble and democratic insanity. A vast parade ground, and perhaps even an artificial mountain, built on a million tons of concrete. Speer had fought the idea at first, but the idea of remaking such a city into a vast park... it had sparked his professional interest.
Koch left his office and traveled to the ground floor by elevator. He would need to confer with his staff in Albany, to clear the way for the vast cleaning-up operations he had planned. Now, finally, he would have his way.
"Idlewild Aerodrome," he told his driver. He looked out the window of his official limousine, smiling at the skyscrapers. "Nothing wrong with this town fire and blood can't fix." He closed his eyes. Just as Alexander cut through the Gordian knot, he'd solved the problem of governing New York. He would simply destroy it.
He woke up to the sound of machine guns. The motorcycle escorts went down in an awful shriek of metal. The windows of his limousine shattered, the car lurching off the road as tires went flat and his driver's head collapsed. Dum-dum bullets, he thought to himself, strangely calm. The car slammed to a halt, and Koch readied his pistol. Suddenly, the door was yanked open and he fell on his back. A viselike grip fell on his hand and the pistol was yanked from him. Two more hands grabbed his shirt and yanked him to his feet, slamming him against the hood of his car. He caught a quick flash of light, grenades going off at the checkpoint ahead, people running screaming from their cars. Something happened to the back of his head and everything went dark.
He woke up in a dark room, tied to a chair. His head throbbed and his mouth was full of a sharp metal taste. That was blood. He groaned, wincing against the bruises swelling from the car crash. Three men sat around a table in front of him. He didn't like their smiles.
"Gauleiter Koch. You awake?" Koch nodded. The man in the middle had spoken, guttural German with an accent he couldn't place right away. Suddenly, with a jolt of fear, it came to him.
"You're a Jew! You're all Jews!" The man in the middle smiled grimly.
"No, just me. The man to my left is Italian, and this gentleman is Irish. Ivy League, even."
Koch peered. "Who are you?"
"My name's Meyer Lansky." Koch's eyes widened.
"You! The mobster!" Lansky beamed.
"Gee, I heard of you too."
Koch strained against his bonds. "You'd better let me go, Lansky. Your time is over. This is a German world now, and if you want your end to come quick instead of slow, you'd better let me go."
Lansky smiled unpleasantly. "Maybe this is your world, Koch. But New York's still my town." He gestured and two men stepped out of the shadows. "Boys, beat the living shit out of our guest here for a while."
October 1, 1943
Koch groaned, struggling. Finally, the goon pulled out the molar, with a sickening popping sound. He only had the strength to lean forward and let the blood drip out of his mouth.
Lansky blew cigar smoke into Koch's face. "See, there's the last one. All done!" He leaned in, slapping Koch. "Wake up, you stinkin Kraut. I ain't done with you."
Koch began sobbing, trying to make himself understood through the numbing pain and his mangled jaws. "I... let me go. I'll sign a pardon. I'll get you a new Aryan name! Please!" Lansky jerked back, wiping angrily at a drop of blood Koch had gotten on his coat. He brought his shoe down hard on Koch's bare foot, and Koch felt the bones give. Koch screamed sobbing. Lansky leaned in behind him.
"I'm going to bed, Koch. In the morning, I'm gonna have you circumcised. You're gonna die a Jew, Koch." Footsteps echoing away, and the lights went out with a snap.
October 2, 1943
Lansky leaned over to Bill Donovan.
"You got everything you needed?" Donovan nodded.
"He doesn't have anything else to say. I'm done with him. Gentlemen, the federal government no longer has any interest in Erich Koch and he is remanded to your custody." Donovan snapped his brefcase shut and smiled grimly. "Go easy on him."
He stood, and Lansky stood too. "Donovan, when this is over... I want your word." Donovan nodded.
"You have it." Donovan shook his hand, and he extended his hand to Lucky Luciano as well. Luciano glowered before standing. He chuckled.
"Billy, if somebody told me last year I'd be shakin hands wit FDR's number one Fed, I'd'a shot him on principle." Donovan smiled.
"Hoover's still the number one Fed, and don't you forget it. But you boys have been damned helpful, and we're on your side." Donovan grinned evilly. "I've got some photos of J. Edgar that should help keep him off your back." With that, he left, bound for the South in a smuggler's truck.
Luciano and Lansky looked down on Koch. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and he was whimpering. From his nose to his knees, the sheet covering him was soaked in blood. Luciano winced at the smell.
"Jesus, Meyer, look at this bastid." Lansky nodded and pulled out a snub-nose .38.
"Figure it's an act of mercy by now, right?" Lansky fired six rounds into Koch's skull. He gestured to a big man in the corner.
"Vinnie, dump this pile of shit in front of the Empire State. With a letter. Take dictation- "Dear Shickelgruber- kiss my Jewish ass. Yours most sincerely, Meyer Lansky." Lansky and Luciano walked out of the Queens warehouse, and into a grey New York morning.