Kappler knew that Schrader stood at the window to project a quiet image of one in deep thought, but felt that he overdid it to the point that it appeared pretentious.
“There is not time to calm down,” Kappler went on. “We almost had a disastrous experience with these nerve gas weapons, and now they are sending more this week?”
Schrader, still looking out the window, said, “I expected you to be troubled by that, which is why I’m sending you to Palermo this afternoon to ensure all the necessary safeguards are in order.”
“And now this Abwehr agent is asking about the nerve gas,” Kappler went on, “which of course I lied about any knowledge of.”
Schrader turned to look at Kappler.
“He asked—what is this agent’s name?—about the Tabun?”
“Beck. Ernst Beck is his name. And, yes, he asked. I said I had no idea what he was talking about.”
Schrader met Kappler’s eyes for a long moment, nodded thoughtfully, and said, “Interesting.”
Then he turned to look back out the window.
Well, I think that convinced him, Kappler thought.
Or at least threw him off the scent for now . . .
* * *
At nine o’clock that morning, SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler had been seated on the patio of Café Alessandro that overlooked Piazza Salvatore. It was a warm, sunny morning, and a little more than half of the dozen small round wrought-iron tables were occupied. Kappler had picked one that was in an empty corner with a good view of the piazza.
He was sipping a black coffee and admiring the attractive Sicilian girls making their way to the nearby University of Messina when a man in an ill-fitting rumpled suit approached his table. The man looked to be maybe thirty years old, five-foot-nine, and 190. He had a friendly face with dark, inquisitive eyes and thin black hair that went to his collar and could use a trim. A small white rose was pinned to his lapel.
“Herr Kappler?”
“It is that obvious?” Kappler said, standing and offering his hand.
“The uniform was my first clue.”
“I see.”
“It is my pleasure to finally meet you. I am Ernst Beck,” he said as he shook Kappler’s hand, impressed with his firm—but not crushing—grip and the fact that he maintained eye contact throughout.
Beck then added, “Actually, the uniform was my second clue. We of course have a quite detailed dossier on you back at the office.”
Kappler made eye contact again.
Would that have anything to do with who my father is? His companies and connections with the High Command?
Or perhaps because I am not exactly blindly faithful to Der Führer and his crumbling Reich?
I didn’t exactly throw out my arm and bark “Heil Hitler!” just now. . . .
“Yes, of course you do, Herr Beck. You are, after all, with the German Trade Ministry,” he said, slightly sarcastic.
I’ve known the ministry was your cover since the first day you set foot in Sicily.
“Please, call me Ernst,” Beck said, ignoring the sarcasm.
Kappler gestured toward the other seat at the wrought-iron table and said, “Please join me. Coffee? A pastry perhaps? Being so close to the office, I do happen to come here regularly. It is most excellent.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Beck said.
Kappler sipped at his coffee as he let his eyes wander across the piazza. He then found another two young women, well built and in tight clothing, and watched as they approached then passed the café.
Picking up on what Kappler was following, Beck offered, “You know, you’d have far more luck with the locals if you lost that SS uniform.”
Kappler’s eyes darted back to Beck, who he saw was smiling.
Am I being tested?
“You would think for all we’re doing for them,” Kappler said, “they could be more appreciative of a man in uniform. They should be grateful. Throwing themselves at us would be a nice start.”
Beck met his eyes, and with dripping sarcasm said, “And by that you would mean showering them with the fine ideals of Der Führer and the Thousand-Year Reich? Surely they must be giddy with anticipation to die for a lost cause.”
He believes as I do!
Or . . . is that part of the test?
“That is quite a bold statement to make to an officer of the SS,” Kappler said evenly.
Beck shrugged. “Not just any SS officer.”
What does he mean by that?
Beck looked at Kappler for a long moment and said, “I appreciate you taking time to meet with me.”
Kappler glanced across the busy Piazza Salvatore. It was two blocks up from the port and offered a stunning view of the Mediterrean Sea. Café Alessandro was one of four restaurants on the piazza. And around the corner was the Schutzstaffel Provisional Headquarters.
Kappler then said: “You chose a rather conspicuous place to meet, wouldn’t you say? My office is a block away.”
Even the Gestapo’s thugs could stumble across us here—and probably have.
“Yes,” Beck said, “I would agree that it is quite conspicuous.”
“And you’re not worried what someone might think? Or say?”
“Someone?”
Kappler smiled. He grabbed both lapels of his tunic and tugged at them in an exaggerated fashion.
“Of all people,” he said, “I would expect that someone in your line of work would have noticed there are quite a number more of these around town.”
“Ah, yes. And I have. But if we have nothing to hide, why should we hide? Should anyone ask, I can say that I’m making a simple professional courtesy call as the new head of the Trade Ministry.”
Kappler grunted.
But we are hiding something . . . perhaps our allegiance?
And here is my test, Herr Beck.
He said, “While that of course is a quite logical line of thought, I’m afraid to say that it cannot be applied to the SS. They can be irrational, and they project the same on others.”
“‘They’?” Beck repeated.
“They,” Kappler confirmed.
“So, then everyone is an enemy of the Reich until proven otherwise?”
Kappler nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “although sometimes not even then. I did say they can be irrational.”
Beck smiled. “That you did.”
Okay, let’s cut the bullshit.
“And may I ask what it is that we are not hiding here in this conspicuous place?” He sipped his coffee. “What is it that I can do for the German Trade Ministry that, as you said on the telephone, ‘is a matter of most urgency’?”
“Nothing,” Beck said. “But I appreciate your kind offer, Herr Kappler. I suspect that at some point I will take you up on it.”
“Then this urgent matter . . . ?”
Beck reached inside his suit coat, into the left pocket that was behind the flower.
“Curiosity overwhelms,” Kappler said. “Why the white rose?”
Beck glanced at it, then said, “The white rose stands for many things. For some, it is purity and innocence. In our line of work, it’s silence and secrecy.” He paused, then grinned and added, “That, and the pretty ladies really like it. Perhaps for all those meanings.”
Beck produced an envelope.
“This came in very early this morning.”
He handed it to Kappler.
There was a folded typewritten sheet inside. Kappler opened it, and as he began to read, he inhaled deeply.
Ach du lieber Gott!
“Karlchen”?
He warned me that he very well one day might have to use it!
Kappler looked back at Beck and tried to gauge if his shocked reaction was as obvious as it felt. Kappler then made a thin smile, and feebly said, “It is from my father.”
Beck, stone-faced, nodded.
Trying not to appear anxious, Kappler turned his attention back to the page:
* * *
<
br /> HIGHEST SECRECY
TO—
SS-OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER OSKAR KAPPLER
SS PROVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS SICILY
THROUGH—
HERR ERNST BECK, DIRECTOR
GERMAN TRADE MINISTRY, MESSINA, SICILY
BEGIN MESSAGE
MIDNIGHT, MAY 27TH,IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 1943
DEAR OSKAR,
FIRST, MY KARLCHEN, YOUR MOTHER ASKS THAT I SEND TO YOU HER LOVE AND YOUR SISTER’S LOVE.
SECOND, AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD, THERE RECENTLY HAS BEEN SIGNIFICANT DESTRUCTION IN THE RUHR VALLEY. KNOW THAT OUR FAMILY SUFFERED NO PERSONAL HARM, AS WHEN IT HAPPENED I WAS OUT OF THE COUNTRY ON BUSINESS AND YOUR MOTHER AND SISTER WERE IN BERLIN.
KAPPLER INDUSTRIES, HOWEVER, DID LOSE FIVE OF OUR SEVEN OPERATIONS THERE. IN DUE COURSE, I WILL SHARE MORE DETAILS ON THIS, BUT FOR NOW THE DAMAGE IS DONE AND BEING DEALT WITH AS EXPEDITIOUSLY AS POSSIBLE.
THIRD, AND I THINK PERHAPS MOST IMPORTANT, YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT I HAVE BEEN ASKED TO PERFORM SOME EXTRAORDINARY TASKS. THESE ARE ONES THAT I DEVOUTLY BELIEVE OUR ALMIGHTY GOD HAS CHOSEN FOR ME TO DO. AND I HAVE AGREED TO DO SO.
BECAUSE THEY ARE OF THE HIGHEST SECRECY, I KNOW THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THAT THEY ARE DANGEROUS, AND MAY NOT END WELL FOR ME.
I AM SHARING THIS WITH YOU NOW BECAUSE IF SOMETHING SHOULD HAPPEN TO ME, YOU WILL NEED TO TAKE YOUR OWN EXTRAORDINARY ACTIONS. ONES TO SAVE YOURSELF FROM A POSSIBLE SIMILAR FATE BUT ALSO ONES TO SAVE YOUR MOTHER AND SISTER.
TO THIS END, YOU WILL BE APPROACHED BY A GENTLEMAN OF POWERFUL RESOURCES WHO FROM THE START HAS HELPED ME WITH ALL OUR FAMILY BUSINESSES AND INVESTMENTS IN THE AMERICAS. THESE NOW CONSTITUTE OUR FAMILY’S ENTIRE WEALTH, AS ALL KAPPLER INDUSTRIES IN GERMANY HAVE BEEN OR ARE ABOUT TO BE NATIONALIZED. THIS IS THE SAME THAT BORMANN HAS DONE WITH FRITZ THYSSEN, WHO YOU SHOULD UNDERSTAND GORING PRESENTLY IS MOVING FROM A BERLIN ASYLUM TO A KONZENTRATIONSLAGER.
YOU WILL KNOW THIS GENTLEMAN IS LEGITIMATE IN THE SAME MANNER AS YOU KNOW THIS MESSAGE YOU NOW READ IS LEGITIMATE.
I CLEARLY APPRECIATE THAT THIS SUDDENLY PLACES AN UNFAIR BURDEN ON YOUR SHOULDERS, BUT KNOWING YOUR FINE CHARACTER THERE IS NO QUESTION IN MY MIND THAT YOU UNDERSTAND SUCH DESPERATE TIMES REQUIRE SUCH GREAT SACRIFICES.
LASTLY, AND SADLY, I AM AWARE AND ASHAMED THAT I HAVE BEEN REMISS ALL YOUR LIFE IN SAYING THIS ENOUGH TO YOU, BUT PLEASE KNOW HOW VERY PROUD OF YOU I AM, MY SON, AND THAT I LOVE YOU.
PRAY WITH ME THAT THIS WAR SOON ENDS, BEFORE MORE MINDLESS HARM IS DONE, AND THAT WE ALL WILL AGAIN BE TOGETHER AS A FAMILY.
STAY STRONG. MAY GOD BLESS YOU.
YOUR FATHER
END MESSAGE
HIGHEST SECRECY
* * *
Kappler, his eyes beginning to water, felt his throat constrict.
He looked out across the piazza and drained his coffee.
“I’m sorry,” Ernst Beck said softly.
Kappler looked at him.
“Yes,” Beck said, “I of course read the letter. It’s my job. But know that I am under orders to provide you with whatever you need.”
“My father,” Kappler said, “he is working with the Abwehr?”
Beck nodded.
“That is all I know,” he added, then nodded at the message. “But considering the urgency I was instructed to get that to you, something tells me this is all going to get very interesting very quickly.”
[TWO]
Latitude 37 Degrees 15 Seconds North
Longitude 4 Degrees 13 Seconds East
Over the Mediterranean Sea, North of Tigzirt, Algeria
1820 30 May 1943
Stepping slowly away from the flight deck—the only lights burning on the aircraft were on the control panel, and these had been dimmed as low as possible—Dick Canidy moved in the dark toward the bulkhead door. He glanced up at the astrodome, the clear Plexiglas bubble used for celestial navigation. Some—not much—natural light was coming through it from the twinkling blanket of stars and the sliver of a crescent moon. He then heard the droning of the Twin Wasps grow slightly louder and at the same time felt the angle of the aircraft nose up. Hank Darmstadter had started his slow ascent, headed for eight thousand feet.
Canidy went through the bulkhead door and closed it behind him.
It was noisier than hell in the back. The aircraft’s walls weren’t insulated, of course, and he essentially was standing between—and within feet of—both engines, albeit separated by the thin skin of aluminum alloy that was the fuselage. The trooper door aft had been removed, and the slipstream was howling at the opening.
The temperature at Dellys had been just above ninety when they had taken off, and the salty-smelling sea air in the plane was still humid and hot. That would soon change as they gained altitude. The temperature of air dropped five-plus degrees with every thousand feet of elevation. Reaching eight thousand feet, they would lose forty or so degrees. Chilly, but not unbearable, especially considering everyone was wearing an extra layer of clothing—black coveralls.
Standing at the bulkhead, Canidy strained to make out shapes.
It’s damn-near darker back here, if that’s possible.
After grabbing a rib of the fuselage for balance, he took a step forward—and immediately tripped.
Damn it!
He caught himself, then looked around trying to see what his boot had found.
While the folding metal seats lining either side of the fuselage were capable of holding twenty-eight parachutists, Canidy knew there were only two people in the back of the C-47—and he’d just found one of them.
Twenty-four-year-old Second Lieutenant Jeffrey Kauffman was the beefy copilot—he stood six-foot-two, 230—who would relieve Darmstadter after serving as jumpmaster and making sure Canidy and van der Ploeg had safely exited the aircraft over the LZ.
Kauffman was now curled up against the foot of the bulkhead, lying on a woolen blanket and resting his head on one of the four big black duffel bags stacked there under the cargo netting. He was in the process of bending his knees, pulling his feet closer to him—That’s what I hit, his feet—but otherwise not paying any attention to Canidy.
Smart guy—getting some shut-eye while he can.
Sorry to disturb your slumber.
Canidy looked at the bags of gear, with parachutes attached, and that brought back the memory of earlier in the day, when he found out what John Craig van der Ploeg planned to bring.
* * *
While Dick Canidy and Stan Fine remained at the teak table on the villa balcony and went over last-minute details concerning who to message about the mission into Sicily—and more importantly who the hell not to message—John Craig van der Ploeg had gone downstairs and begun pulling together what gear to take.
He had been there an hour by the time Dick Canidy entered the vast storeroom and found him in a far corner.
John Craig was looking at a sheet of paper with a neatly hand-printed list. Near his feet were four well-worn Italian leather suitcases. All were open and empty. A variety of clothing and gear was spread out on the floor around the suitcases.
“What the hell is this?” Canidy said.
“The suitcases?” John Craig said. “Francisco Nola’s fishing boats have been smuggling families here from Sicily. We bought their suitcases—and what clothes they would sell us—so that we’d blend in when we went there.”
“No . . . what the hell is all this?”
“What do you mean?” John Craig said, holding up the sheet of paper. “This is what we always did in Boy Scouts before a trip. We made a packing list, then laid out everything before packing, checking it off the list as we went.”
Canidy looked at him—Jesus! We’re not going to Camp Two Teepee to roast marshmallows—then walked over to where everything was spread out.
In front of one suitcase, John Craig had put a mess kit, two bath towels, a package of handkerchiefs, a toilet kit—and his clothes.
Canidy reached down and counted six pairs of socks, six boxer shorts, si
x T-shirts, six outer shirts, and six pairs of pants.
How the hell long is he planning on staying?
He then looked at what was next to the second suitcase. There was an olive drab canvas musette bag and, beside it, a web belt and harness and a Colt .45 ACP pistol and two extra magazines with two boxes—a hundred rounds—of full metal jacket ball ammo. And there was a blackjack. And gold Swiss coins and what looked to Canidy to be some of the OSS “aged” Italian paper currency.
“That’s fifty thousand dollars in gold,” John Craig offered. “And another hundred grand in lire.”
In front of the third suitcase there was another towel, a raincoat, and a sleeping bag. Next to this was a second .45 with two extra magazines and two boxes of ammo, a first-aid kit, a canteen, a compass, a flashlight, a gas mask, a dozen K rations, and finally a pack of playing cards and a box of Hershey chocolate bars.
“What?” Canidy said. “No marshmallows and graham crackers?”
John Craig’s eyes brightened.
“To make s’mores! We have any?”
Canidy grunted.
“That was a fucking joke,” he said, then swept his hand in the direction of all that was on the floor. “Much like all this.”
Canidy walked over to the suitcases and glanced at each of them.
“The radios are in which ones?”
Van der Ploeg pointed to the first and third suitcases.
Canidy went to the first one, reached in, and after a moment found the false bottom. He then carefully removed it, revealing three black boxes. The transmitter and receiver of the SSTR-1 wireless telegraphy set were nearly identical black boxes, each about ten inches long and four inches wide and tall. They had black Bakelite faceplates with an assortment of knobs, dials, and toggle switches. Each weighed five pounds; the similar-sized box that was the power supply weighed ten.
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 16