By early June, Colonel Mainz returned to the German capital, Berlin. His first visit was to the Berlin Military Academy, where he sought out its director, Major General Wimbled, an aging but respected officer. In his hands, Mainz carried a heavy leather pouch, which he placed before the general.
"Colonel," the old soldier asked cautiously, his voice trembling, "is this an appropriation from the army?"
Wimbled's hands shook as he lifted the pouch. Not only was it unexpectedly heavy, but inside was not the near-worthless German mark—devalued beyond recognition by runaway inflation—but solid gold. His fingers quivered, partly from the weight, but mostly from the uncontainable joy of knowing his academy had been saved, at least for the time being.
"Yes," Mainz replied evenly. "This is support for you from the army. It is not much, but I hope it will help you endure a while longer. You must persevere."
What Mainz did not reveal was that this money did not come from the German Army. In truth, the army was impoverished, reduced to disarmament on a massive scale, incapable of supporting its academies or even its soldiers.
The real source of the gold lay elsewhere—an account under the name BMW. The company, not yet three years old, was in fact owned and controlled by Mainz himself.
It had been during the suppression of the Ruhr workers' uprising that Mainz first began forging secret trade connections with the Soviets. The Bolshevik prisoner he had once released had carried intelligence back to Moscow, and the Soviet leadership had seized upon it eagerly.
For the Soviet Union in 1919, survival itself was uncertain. The October Revolution had left the Bolsheviks encircled by enemies on every side. The Red Army held Petrograd and Moscow, but much of Russia remained in the hands of the White forces, supported by foreign intervention. Britain and the United States enforced a naval blockade, tightening the noose.
The White armies, under General Denikin in the south and Admiral Kolchak in Siberia, pressed hard from both sides. Supported by the Entente, they were supplied with weapons discarded from the Great War. In return, they paid with gold, silver, and even Russia's national resources through unequal treaties. To the White generals, this was acceptable: victory came first, and the losses could later be forced upon the Russian people.
The Bolsheviks, however, had no such luxury. Isolated and blockaded, they had no access to foreign weapons. Their army lacked trained officers, their factories lay in ruins, and their troops were poorly equipped, many without rifles.
Civil war had already claimed millions of lives—over 1.5 million soldiers dead or wounded, and more than 5 million civilian casualties among the workers and peasants. Industrial regions, the very heart of Russia's modern economy, became battlegrounds, their fragile foundations destroyed by endless fighting. The result was catastrophic: Russia, already only semi-industrialized under the Tsar, slid backwards into a predominantly agrarian state.
In such desperation, the prospect of acquiring weapons—even secretly from Germany—was a godsend. When word reached Moscow of Mainz's willingness to deal, the Bolshevik leadership immediately approved. The released Bolshevik, instead of being punished, was decorated and sent back into Germany with a new mission.
"Ah, my old friend—we meet again," the man said warmly when he returned, standing before Mainz once more.
Mainz studied him closely. In the half year since they had last met, the Bolshevik had changed. His face was harder, his posture sharper, his presence commanding—as if the crucible of war had burned away the excess and left only steel. Mainz could not help but feel curious about what the man had endured.
Yet the Bolshevik, too, regarded Mainz with surprise. When they had last met, Mainz had been only a battalion commander, a mere major with a few hundred men. Now he stood before him as a full colonel. Such a leap in rank during peacetime was extraordinary.
In wartime, rapid promotions were not unusual—the Soviet cavalry commander Semyon Budyonny, for instance, had risen within a year from leading a regiment to commanding the entire First Cavalry Army. But in Germany, in peacetime, such advancement was unheard of.
The Bolshevik concluded silently: this man was not merely fortunate. Either Mainz had powerful backers—or he possessed a rare and dangerous talent.
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