Willi Kushmann had been the chosen architect and leader who would take such a secret organisation forward on the day that the National Socialists decided to show their hand. But Willi Kushmann was dead and the council of twelve, of which Mitzer was one, had chosen their new leader.
Richard Frick was, like the late Willi Kushmann, a lawyer from Dresden. He had been, at thirty six, Kushmann's organiser and private secretary, Iago to Kushmann's Othello. The man of steel behind the dreamer.
But Kushmann had been Mitzer's man. Frick wanted his own loyalties and his own programme for the future, was tired of the older men who only had dreams and talked of what had been. But he needed their money and their contacts. They were his credibility. He would play the game for as long as was necessary. He would keep Mitzer and the others on their toes, keep them edgy while he put his plans into place.
Which is why he kept the great industrialist, Grob Mitzer, waiting in the ante-room while he carried on the pretence of having an important meeting which could not be disturbed.
Across the river, in the Theatre Platz which was ringed by the Zwinger, the Hofkirche Cathedral and the Semper Opera, Mitzer could see the tourists milling around. It was a cold day, but clear and bathed in sunshine. A good day to see the sights, a good day to be alive.
'Sorry to keep you waiting, Grob,' said Frick from behind him, startling Mitzer. Frick came towards him, his arm half outstretched in the old newsreel familiar fashion, the palm of his hand turned upward.
'Richard,' Mitzer replied, holding his own arm up, but feeling strange with the unfamiliar gesture.
Frick, his welcoming smile topped with a wide blond moustache, walked up to Mitzer, adjusting his arm down to the more familiar handshake. Mitzer returned the greeting. Frick was, as usual, wearing a business suit, a grey woollen outfit that topped off the image of the successful lawyer. Behind him, standing in the doorway, were the now familiar skinheaded Stermabeitalung, the brown shirts who would one day take their rightful place as the storm troopers of the new movement.
'A Happy New Year to you. And hopefully, this will be the start of a momentous year for our movement,' said Frick. Mitzer noticed he didn't apologise for calling a meeting on a public holiday, summoning the industrialist across Germany in his private jet. 'What were you looking at, with so much interest, out there?' asked Frick, walking to the window.
'At The Zwinger and the tourists. It's good to see the crowds again.'
'It is. And that they should come to the Zwinger.' Frick looked across at one of Germany's finest baroque buildings, the seven connected pavilions that are Dresden's most famous landmark. 'It stood through all the bombs. It stood when all else had been burnt to the ground. Our past and our future. A great time, Grob. An historic time.' Frick turned back to his guest. 'Come through into the other room,' he said, taking Mitzer's arm.
The two Stermabeitalung stayed guarding the door that Frick closed. The bedroom had been turned into a small office, a simple table and armchairs the only furniture.
'You know Helmut, of course,' said Frick. 'I have asked him to be present for this meeting. Just in case we need anything actioned.'
Mitzer nodded at Helmut Kragan, the bull necked, rottweiler of a Prussian who was Frick's personal assistant. Kragan smiled back, his grey eyes as dead as the dusty embers of a fire that had long gone out. Mitzer sensed there was a difference about the assistant, but couldn't immediately place it.
'I thought it wiser we meet here,' Frick continued, his German more orthodox than Mitzer's, as is the manner of the East Germans. 'Unfortunately, anonymity is necessary. But maybe not for long.' He signalled Mitzer to sit in one of the armchairs and lowered himself into the one next to his guest. 'I know you didn't vote for me during the leadership campaign. I understand your reason, the need for someone more…' he paused, '…mature. I hope my future actions will give you confidence in my ability.'
'That was yesterday. I pledge you my total support. I will be proud to serve your leadership.'
‘And I shall not let you down. And I shall always come to you for advice when I need it.'
The two men sat in silence for a while, the formalities complete.
'Would you like a drink, or anything?' asked Frick eventually.
Mitzer shook his head.
'You saw the news from Berlin today?' Frick continued.
'Yes.'
'It's good for us. All these television pictures of riot police being attacked by thugs. Scares the hell out of the public, eh?'
'The New Forum people,' spat Kragan, standing behind his leader. Mitzer now realised what was different about Kragan. The man had treated his close cropped mousey hair with blond streaks. He remembered Martin Boorman had once done that to resemble a true blond haired Aryan.
'The New nothing,' snapped back Frick angrily. 'Communists. Zionists. Anarchists. With their Mohican haircuts, their ridiculous dress. Leather jackets and jeans and, what do the British call it, bovver boots. The more they attack the police, the more the people will look for proper law and order.'
'Over 3,000 police.'
'With bulldozers and armoured personnel carriers. Batons and tear gas. Ninety police were injured, you know. And many of those arrested were militants from France and Italy and the Netherlands. They've crossed the old border, the old Wall to bring their radical political agenda into the rest of Germany. One day, this Europe they so desperately want will destroy them. Heh? When Germany says it will not pay for those other Europeans. Then we can blame rising unemployment and a collapse of local and federal authority. Familiar stuff, eh?'
'Just like 1933.'
'Precisely. Chaos followed by order. Then it was the Fuhrer. This time it will be us.' Frick laughed, a high pitched gurgle, excited and girlish. 'You know the old joke. Give a German a rifle and he'll head for France.'
'I hope I can be of service to the party now, before all that happens,' said Mitzer.
Frick stopped laughing. 'You are a cornerstone of that future. A leader of business. A veritable captain of industry.' He played to Mitzer's ego.. Why, the bastard was positively preening himself. 'When the National Socialists came to power in 1933, it was with the support of big business. Successful industry needs an ordered society. That's why they supported us in 1933. And that's why they will, and must, support us now.. And this time, we will not have to use military power to achieve our ends. With the single monetary policy of Europe, with the powers of the Bundesbanke governing the financial institutions of Europe, we can do it all without firing a shot. Even the bloody British will lose their sovereignty. But to do that we must be in government. For that we need chaos.'
'West German businessmen have been used to these groups before. Bader Meinhoff, the Red Brigade. It has been a part of our life for thirty years now. It still continues with Rohwedder and the others.'
'You knew him?'
'He was a friend.' A good friend recollected Mitzer. He remembered the shock he had felt when Detlev Rohwedder, the politician responsible for much of the privatisation of state industries in East Germany had been shot dead at his home in Dusseldorf in 1991.
'Yes. The Reds.' Frick wasted no opportunity in reminding Mitzer that the Red Army Faction had claimed responsibility for the attack. 'Your colleagues must be shown that only we can lead them out of this mess. That we are the only alternative to anarchy and disorder. That is our joint destiny. And I count on you, my dear Grob, to show them the way to our door. To their salvation. To Germany's salvation.'