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So, I was reading linkwerk's Fountainhead Filibuster TL and was inspired to do something... interesting. While this TL is inspired by linkwerk's work, it is not an homage or direct inspiration but something with a bit of linkwerk "flavor."

More or less, I noticed all of the interesting historical people that truly have some "character" and decided to say "what would happen if you put them out on their own and gave them "More Guns, Money, and Bullets"

This will include narrative prose, and some excerpts from this ATL's history books.

Also, as a note to readers, despite the POD, I will not be exploring too many details of TTL's second world war. As that will not be the focus of the timeline.


So, without further ado, here is the first update.





Moscow, Russia, November 8, 1922






Silence hung in the room as Vladimir Ilyich Lenin stared out at the assembled men, a glaring look in his eyes as both of his hands gripped the podium. Matvei Muranov was not alone in his shock as everyone in the room seemed completely unable to speak.


Over the past fifteen minutes, the great revolutionary leader and the Father of the October Revolution stood up there and railed against the offenses of Joseph Stalin and his followers. Words like “betrayal” and “corruption” being among the milder slurs hurled out at the prominent communist leader.


It was surprising enough that Lenin had managed to make it out to speak before the congress less than three weeks after suffering a stroke which had seemingly left him both mute and bedridden, but to see such hateful energy spew forth from the man and in such a public manner...


As Lenin turned to leave the podium and take his chair, Matvei looked over to see the targets of this very public fusillade. Stalin, ever the pillar of determination simply looked on with grim determination in his eyes, but Zinoviev and Kamenev both looked as though they were about to hang themselves from the rafters if enough rope were handy.


Matvei suppressed a chuckle at that sight, to see the General Secretary's toadies squirm in their seats like that was something that even he could appreciate, despite his own ideological leanings at the moment.


His amusement was short lived however as the sound of some sort of commotion drew his attention back towards the front of the chamber. The Chairman had fallen to the floor and a growing number of men were standing around him, alarmed looks on their faces. Almost immediately, Matvei found himself jumping to his feet along with the rest of the men in the room.


Vladimir Lenin, Premier of the Soviet Union, great leader of the October Revolution, and Hero to the People had just suffered his second and final stroke.








September 12, 1938, Santiago, Chile








Reinhard Heydrich took one last toke from his cigarette before discarding it with a flick. A warm breeze blew in from the west and picked up the discarded butt on its way down, carrying it an extra meter before it hit the ground with a bounce. He liked the weather in Santiago, it reminded him of Madrid this time of year. Too bad it was infested with so many dark skinned savages, and of course the communists too. Of course then that was a problem that plagued pretty much the entire hemisphere, that damned fool Roosevelt was just a little too tolerant of the lesser breeds under his rule.


Perhaps they would do something about all of these problems one day, that was if Reinhard could complete this mission anyway.


Expelling the last bit of smoke from his lungs, he stepped off of the curb to cross the street. Despite the throngs of people hurrying about the sidewalks in this part of town, he never took his attention away from the large building a block away, or more specifically towards the row of cars parked in front of it. To say that he was paying attention to the cars was an understatement, he was practically dissecting them with his eyes, with any luck, someone would remember that a strange looking foreign man was staring at the cars just before things started to happen.


After reaching the other corner, he turned and headed for the news stand about ten meters away, and ten meters closer to the target. Once there, he purchased a copy of El Mercurio “how much?” he asked the proprietor, taking the utmost care to use that accent trick he had managed to perfect in Spain.


The man at the news stand eyed him briefly “five centavos” he replied with a slightly raised eyebrow.


Reinhard nodded “spasiba” he said just before throwing a handful of coins down on the counter, taking care to ensure that one of his rubles fell on top of the other coins.


That last bit of deception completed, he took his paper and walked over to lean against a lamp post and “read” it.


Time passed at a snails pace as he tried to not worry about the mission. It didn't matter how many times he conducted a clandestine operation like this, even with the three assassinations he pulled back in Spain and Czechoslovakia, he still felt nervous every time. Worried that the target was behind schedule, he looked down at his watch to check the time, and almost as if on cue, the doors to the building across the street opened up, and out emerged a group of men, one of whom was the focus of this entire operation.


With a certain amount of haste, the men in question piled into the row of cars before them, the movement punctuated with the sound of several of car doors closing, then the engines started up and they began to pull-


A bright flash and deafening boom interrupted Reinhard's thoughts, and by the time he looked back at the the target, he saw that the row of cars were now gone, replaced by a group of flaming metal hulks, surrounded by dozens of prone bodies.


Where once the bustling sound of a city going about its business surrounded him, now there were nothing but screams and sobs, and a moment or two later, the distant sound sirens. Taking one last look to survey the destruction, he turned to blend in with the horde of people fleeing the scene. Moments later he was riding in the back of a taxi heading toward the outskirts of the city.


*-*-*


Carlos Ibáñez del Campo was not happy to be standing in the dry storage room of this little restaurant, not now, not under these circumstances. Nervously he drummed his fingers on the pant leg of his suit. He didn't like this, and he was very much not wanting to be there right then, not a scant three days after the assassination. Accusations were flying as to who had been responsible, some saying anarchists, others said communists, some said members of Ross' own party had done the deed. Even so, Carlos had his own suspicions. Especially with the arrival of his “benefactor” in the country so recently.


If his “relationship” with Abwehr were revealed, it would be a disaster.


As the door to the room opened, he folded his arms around his chest, no need to show anyone else his current state of mind.


With a kind of nonchalant calmness that made Carlos want to smack him, the German spy walked through the doorway “thank you for coming” he said with a faint accent.


Carlos gave a humorless chuckle “you act as though I was entirely happy about this meeting, do you know what has happened?!” he demanded.


Heydrich only responded with a raised eyebrow “oh, don't give me that arrogant routine, that's what I always hated about you Germans. You know full well that I'm talking about the bombing. Someone has assassinated Gustavo Ross! There is talk of foreign involvement! And you want us to meet a mere three days afterward. If word got out that I was meeting with-” he started barking at the German but was cut off.


“Yes, I'm well aware of the assassination. I mean, after all, my agency carried it out.”


“You what?! What did you think you were doing? If it is revealed that a German agent was responsible, if they find out our connection, it will not only spell the end of our arrangement, but also destroy my political career, all of our efforts will be for naught. What could you possibly be thinking?!”


Seemingly oblivious to the furious man standing before him, the German spy placed his suitcase on the floor next to him and nonchalantly reached into his jacket pocket, producing a cigarette case which he proceeded to open. Taking one of the cylinders out, he placed it between his lips, slapped the case shut and placed it back in his pocket, only to produce a small silver lighter in its place, the embossed swastika on the lighter cast rays of light on the floor as he used it to lift his cigarette.


Taking a long drag from the smoldering cylinder, he pulled it from his lips “I was thinking that Cerda's associations with known communists will be particularly disastrous to his campaign once evidence of communist involvement in the attack surfaces” he said as he expelled the smoke from his lungs.


Carlos looked at Heydrich in silence for a second before speaking again “what are you talking about, what Soviet agent? You just said that you-” he stopped as the connections came together in his mind “what evidence?” he asked suspiciously.


The German took another drag from his cigarette “the group of communist radicals who the police were informed of just this morning and are operating out of a house a mere ten kilometers outside of the city and happen to have ten pounds of TNT in their possession, and the witness accounts of a foreign man with a Russian accent being spotted at the scene of the bombing which can be corroborated by Russian coins that the authorities will almost certainly find at the news stand across the street from where the bombing took place” he explained.


“Foreign man with-”


Heydrich made a gesture like a mock salute “zdrastvooyte comrade” he said in heavily Russian accented Spanish.


His expression widened into what could almost be mistaken for a grin “there are communist revolutionaries everywhere it seems, ready to strike from the shadows at any moment, filling the streets with blood. First in Prague, Warsaw, and Paris, and now in Santiago. Hardly a surprise really. Only a matter of time.”


Giving an understanding nod, Carlos allowed himself to relax a bit, but not entirely “perhaps next time you intend to conduct a political assassination in my country, you will have the courtesy to inform me ahead of time” he said with a wry grin.


“Apologies, I was told to keep utmost secrecy leading up to the assassination, and was not given authorization to inform you until after the operation had been successfully completed. Although it was not explained to me as such, I was given to understand that if we failed or secrecy had been compromised, then it would be easier for you to deny knowledge of it if such a thing was in fact true.”


Another nod “I am thoroughly impressed with your concern, though you will have to forgive my skepticism that the intentions of your superiors were entirely altruistic” Carlos said, his words dripping with sarcasm.


The two men each exchanged knowing glances before continuing “well, let us get to the next piece of business” said Heydrich before taking a final drag from his cigarette and dropping it on the floor.


Carlos nodded in response “yes, let us. I suspect that you have the first payment with you” he replied, eying the suitcase on the floor next to the German.


Heydrich nodded “you are correct” he said before sliding the suitcase across the floor with his foot.


The cases weight was enough to confirm its contents, and he doubted that he really needed to check. After all, it wasn't like the Germans would suddenly decide to double cross him at this point. All that being considered, he still opened the suitcase, revealing three unmarked gold bars contained within.


Taking a deep breath, and being careful not to choke on the cigarette smoke that now filled the room, Carlos closed the case again “we can expect to receive similar deliveries once a month, correct?” he asked.


The German nodded “yes that is correct, three gold bars, all unmarked, delivered on the fifteenth of each month” he concurred.


“Good, then I suppose all that is left is for me to win the election.”






Moscow, Russia, November 8, 1922






Silence hung in the room as Vladimir Ilyich Lenin stared out at the assembled men, a glaring look in his eyes as both of his hands gripped the podium. Matvei Muranov was not alone in his shock as everyone in the room seemed completely unable to speak.


Over the past fifteen minutes, the great revolutionary leader and the Father of the October Revolution stood up there and railed against the offenses of Joseph Stalin and his followers. Words like “betrayal” and “corruption” being among the milder slurs hurled out at the prominent communist leader.


It was surprising enough that Lenin had managed to make it out to speak before the congress less than three weeks after suffering a stroke which had seemingly left him both mute and bedridden, but to see such hateful energy spew forth from the man and in such a public manner...


As Lenin turned to leave the podium and take his chair, Matvei looked over to see the targets of this very public fusillade. Stalin, ever the pillar of determination simply looked on with grim determination in his eyes, but Zinoviev and Kamenev both looked as though they were about to hang themselves from the rafters if enough rope were handy.


Matvei suppressed a chuckle at that sight, to see the General Secretary's toadies squirm in their seats like that was something that even he could appreciate, despite his own ideological leanings at the moment.


His amusement was short lived however as the sound of some sort of commotion drew his attention back towards the front of the chamber. The Chairman had fallen to the floor and a growing number of men were standing around him, alarmed looks on their faces. Almost immediately, Matvei found himself jumping to his feet along with the rest of the men in the room.


Vladimir Lenin, Premier of the Soviet Union, great leader of the October Revolution, and Hero to the People had just suffered his second and final stroke.








September 12, 1938, Santiago, Chile








Reinhard Heydrich took one last toke from his cigarette before discarding it with a flick. A warm breeze blew in from the west and picked up the discarded butt on its way down, carrying it an extra meter before it hit the ground with a bounce. He liked the weather in Santiago, it reminded him of Madrid this time of year. Too bad it was infested with so many dark skinned savages, and of course the communists too. Of course then that was a problem that plagued pretty much the entire hemisphere, that damned fool Roosevelt was just a little too tolerant of the lesser breeds under his rule.


Perhaps they would do something about all of these problems one day, that was if Reinhard could complete this mission anyway.


Expelling the last bit of smoke from his lungs, he stepped off of the curb to cross the street. Despite the throngs of people hurrying about the sidewalks in this part of town, he never took his attention away from the large building a block away, or more specifically towards the row of cars parked in front of it. To say that he was paying attention to the cars was an understatement, he was practically dissecting them with his eyes, with any luck, someone would remember that a strange looking foreign man was staring at the cars just before things started to happen.


After reaching the other corner, he turned and headed for the news stand about ten meters away, and ten meters closer to the target. Once there, he purchased a copy of El Mercurio “how much?” he asked the proprietor, taking the utmost care to use that accent trick he had managed to perfect in Spain.


The man at the news stand eyed him briefly “five centavos” he replied with a slightly raised eyebrow.


Reinhard nodded “spasiba” he said just before throwing a handful of coins down on the counter, taking care to ensure that one of his rubles fell on top of the other coins.


That last bit of deception completed, he took his paper and walked over to lean against a lamp post and “read” it.


Time passed at a snails pace as he tried to not worry about the mission. It didn't matter how many times he conducted a clandestine operation like this, even with the three assassinations he pulled back in Spain and Czechoslovakia, he still felt nervous every time. Worried that the target was behind schedule, he looked down at his watch to check the time, and almost as if on cue, the doors to the building across the street opened up, and out emerged a group of men, one of whom was the focus of this entire operation.


With a certain amount of haste, the men in question piled into the row of cars before them, the movement punctuated with the sound of several of car doors closing, then the engines started up and they began to pull-


A bright flash and deafening boom interrupted Reinhard's thoughts, and by the time he looked back at the the target, he saw that the row of cars were now gone, replaced by a group of flaming metal hulks, surrounded by dozens of prone bodies.


Where once the bustling sound of a city going about its business surrounded him, now there were nothing but screams and sobs, and a moment or two later, the distant sound sirens. Taking one last look to survey the destruction, he turned to blend in with the horde of people fleeing the scene. Moments later he was riding in the back of a taxi heading toward the outskirts of the city.


*-*-*


Carlos Ibáñez del Campo was not happy to be standing in the dry storage room of this little restaurant, not now, not under these circumstances. Nervously he drummed his fingers on the pant leg of his suit. He didn't like this, and he was very much not wanting to be there right then, not a scant three days after the assassination. Accusations were flying as to who had been responsible, some saying anarchists, others said communists, some said members of Ross' own party had done the deed. Even so, Carlos had his own suspicions. Especially with the arrival of his “benefactor” in the country so recently.


If his “relationship” with Abwehr were revealed, it would be a disaster.


As the door to the room opened, he folded his arms around his chest, no need to show anyone else his current state of mind.


With a kind of nonchalant calmness that made Carlos want to smack him, the German spy walked through the doorway “thank you for coming” he said with a faint accent.


Carlos gave a humorless chuckle “you act as though I was entirely happy about this meeting, do you know what has happened?!” he demanded.


Heydrich only responded with a raised eyebrow “oh, don't give me that arrogant routine, that's what I always hated about you Germans. You know full well that I'm talking about the bombing. Someone has assassinated Gustavo Ross! There is talk of foreign involvement! And you want us to meet a mere three days afterward. If word got out that I was meeting with-” he started barking at the German but was cut off.


“Yes, I'm well aware of the assassination. I mean, after all, my agency carried it out.”


“You what?! What did you think you were doing? If it is revealed that a German agent was responsible, if they find out our connection, it will not only spell the end of our arrangement, but also destroy my political career, all of our efforts will be for naught. What could you possibly be thinking?!”


Seemingly oblivious to the furious man standing before him, the German spy placed his suitcase on the floor next to him and nonchalantly reached into his jacket pocket, producing a cigarette case which he proceeded to open. Taking one of the cylinders out, he placed it between his lips, slapped the case shut and placed it back in his pocket, only to produce a small silver lighter in its place, the embossed swastika on the lighter cast rays of light on the floor as he used it to lift his cigarette.


Taking a long drag from the smoldering cylinder, he pulled it from his lips “I was thinking that Cerda's associations with known communists will be particularly disastrous to his campaign once evidence of communist involvement in the attack surfaces” he said as he expelled the smoke from his lungs.


Carlos looked at Heydrich in silence for a second before speaking again “what are you talking about, what Soviet agent? You just said that you-” he stopped as the connections came together in his mind “what evidence?” he asked suspiciously.


The German took another drag from his cigarette “the group of communist radicals who the police were informed of just this morning and are operating out of a house a mere ten kilometers outside of the city and happen to have ten pounds of TNT in their possession, and the witness accounts of a foreign man with a Russian accent being spotted at the scene of the bombing which can be corroborated by Russian coins that the authorities will almost certainly find at the news stand across the street from where the bombing took place” he explained.


“Foreign man with-”


Heydrich made a gesture like a mock salute “zdrastvooyte comrade” he said in heavily Russian accented Spanish.


His expression widened into what could almost be mistaken for a grin “there are communist revolutionaries everywhere it seems, ready to strike from the shadows at any moment, filling the streets with blood. First in Prague, Warsaw, and Paris, and now in Santiago. Hardly a surprise really. Only a matter of time.”


Giving an understanding nod, Carlos allowed himself to relax a bit, but not entirely “perhaps next time you intend to conduct a political assassination in my country, you will have the courtesy to inform me ahead of time” he said with a wry grin.


“Apologies, I was told to keep utmost secrecy leading up to the assassination, and was not given authorization to inform you until after the operation had been successfully completed. Although it was not explained to me as such, I was given to understand that if we failed or secrecy had been compromised, then it would be easier for you to deny knowledge of it if such a thing was in fact true.”


Another nod “I am thoroughly impressed with your concern, though you will have to forgive my skepticism that the intentions of your superiors were entirely altruistic” Carlos said, his words dripping with sarcasm.


The two men each exchanged knowing glances before continuing “well, let us get to the next piece of business” said Heydrich before taking a final drag from his cigarette and dropping it on the floor.


Carlos nodded in response “yes, let us. I suspect that you have the first payment with you” he replied, eying the suitcase on the floor next to the German.


Heydrich nodded “you are correct” he said before sliding the suitcase across the floor with his foot.


The cases weight was enough to confirm its contents, and he doubted that he really needed to check. After all, it wasn't like the Germans would suddenly decide to double cross him at this point. All that being considered, he still opened the suitcase, revealing three unmarked gold bars contained within.


Taking a deep breath, and being careful not to choke on the cigarette smoke that now filled the room, Carlos closed the case again “we can expect to receive similar deliveries once a month, correct?” he asked.


The German nodded “yes that is correct, three gold bars, all unmarked, delivered on the fifteenth of each month” he concurred.


“Good, then I suppose all that is left is for me to win the election.”
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