The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel

by Griffin, W. E. B. ; Butterworth IV, William E.

  The bartender then, without a word, turned with the open bottle and started back for the bar.

  Kappler was about to stop him, then looked at the glass and thought, Hell, this should last me quite some time—if I can figure out how to drink it without soaking my uniform.

  He had just bent forward to start very carefully sipping at the wine when he noticed someone was entering the lounge. He glanced up and saw two attractive young Sicilian women in tight, revealing dresses.

  When he saw that they were leading a man in an SS uniform, he sat up.

  Müller!

  SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Müller was of medium build with a slight paunch. He had dark eyes that were not necessarily pleasant, puffy cheeks, and thinning black hair that he purposefully had cut to resemble that of Hitler’s.

  Kappler saw that Müller’s hair now was mussed and his tunic not completely buttoned.

  It looks like he just pulled it on!

  And who are these women?

  They were both about five-four with full, curvy figures and olive skin. One had very short brown hair and big almond eyes. The other, with her rich wavy dark hair touching her shoulders, had warm dark eyes. They appeared to be somewhat tolerating their escort.

  Kappler saw that the two men at the bar glanced at the women, then, seeing the SS uniform, made a face and immediately turned away.

  Müller took a long moment to look around the lounge, then found Kappler in the far corner and nodded for the girls to follow him.

  Has the bastard been drinking? Kappler thought.

  Müller came closer, and Kappler then thought, No, not just drinking. He is drunk!

  Kappler was going to keep his seat, but at the presence of the women he automatically got to his feet.

  “Heil Hitler!” Müller began thickly, his words slightly slurred as he thrust out his arm.

  Kappler simply stood staring at him.

  Müller dropped his arm and went on in German: “It is so very good to see you again, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I trust your room is to your satisfaction?”

  Kappler, who realized from Müller’s forced tone that he was working at being hospitable, looked him in the eyes.

  And his drunkenness is an outrage! he thought.

  I should run these women off and have him locked up for dereliction of duty!

  But . . . this behavior is absolutely nothing compared to what I tried to have him punished for the last time. And look what I accomplished with that—not a damn thing.

  Müller made a thin-lipped smile.

  And, you smug bastard, you know that!

  Well, I have much bigger problems to concern myself with. I cannot be distracted by this unprofessional behavior.

  So, okay, I shall play along with you, you bastard . . . which could very well confuse the hell out of you.

  “I asked about your room?” Müller said. “Is it not to your liking?”

  “It is quite a nice room,” Kappler said.

  “Very good,” Müller said.

  Müller then waved to get the bartender’s attention and made a circling motion over their table to order drinks all around. The bartender nodded.

  “Shall we sit?” Müller then said, and when the women did not move, he impatiently motioned at them individually, instructing them to sit on the outside of him and Kappler.

  They don’t speak German, Kappler thought, looking at them.

  Meine Gott, they are indeed quite attractive. . . .

  “Allow me to present Lucia,” Müller said, gesturing first to the long-haired one, “and Maria.”

  They smiled at Kappler.

  They at least understood their names and the gesture.

  What do I say?

  Kappler nodded and smiled, then decided to keep it simple and said, “Ciao.”

  The bartender appeared with Kappler’s open bottle of red wine, two others, and three more glasses. He drained the open bottle and a second one in the glasses, then turned to leave with the empties.

  “Send Signore Palasota!” Müller called after him in German.

  The bartender looked back and nodded, then disappeared from the room.

  Does he understand German? Kappler thought. Or he just recognized the name?

  “I want you to meet the fellow who runs our place,” Müller said, and leaned closer to Kappler, putting his hand on his shoulder.

  “Our place”? Kappler thought, looking at him, then at the hand on his shoulder.

  “I am aware,” Müller said, “that we may have had our differences in the past. And I am glad that that is where they are—in the past.”

  Kappler looked at him.

  What the hell is he doing?

  Müller made a thin smile and held up his glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to our making a fresh start and moving forward,” Müller said. “Salute!”

  He tapped his full glass to Kappler’s very full one, causing some wine to spill. Müller did not seem to notice, or did not care, as he took a sip of his wine.

  Kappler shrugged, then carefully sipped his wine.

  “Of course.”

  “And as an olive branch,” Müller went on, laughed, then said, “or perhaps, as is the case, an olive-skinned branch, you’ll allow me to treat you?” He glanced at the big-eyed young woman. “Do you like Lucia?”

  Kappler looked at Müller.

  What the hell are you talking about?

  “Treat”?

  So these are whores?

  Kappler realized that the girls were looking provocatively at him. Lucia batted her big brown eyes and made a well-practiced smile. He caught himself automatically smiling back.

  Then he felt an involuntarily stir in his groin, and hated himself for it.

  They are!

  I don’t care how attractive they are. I am not going to degrade myself by following some miserable prick who was able to come up with . . . with . . . however the hell much a whore costs!

  He looked at Müller, who was looking toward the arched passageway.

  And, you bastard, I certainly do not want you believing you’ve done me any favors—and not one such as this.

  Scheisse!

  “Ah!” Müller suddenly said. “Here comes Signore Palasota!”

  [FIVE]

  Palermo, Sicily

  2255 30 May 1943

  Dick Canidy and John Craig van der Ploeg rolled into Palermo proper. The city was dark and eerily quiet. The few people they passed—the bicycle allowed them to approach quietly and quickly—ducked down alleys or found other shadowy spots when they realized they’d been seen.

  Why? Canidy thought. Is there a curfew?

  If so, we’re screwed if we’re stopped.

  After ten minutes, getting closer to the western side of the port, Canidy made sure they kept clear of the train station at Via Montepellegrino in case troops were arriving. Canidy then turned onto Via Altavilla and, looking intently, found the familiar side street that was lined with two-story apartments.

  “We’re ten blocks up from the port,” he said quietly. “Which is where we go tomorrow and visit the Brothers Buda.”

  John Craig van der Ploeg, even in the dim light, could see that the neighborhood was run-down. Trash littered the street. And the shabby buildings were not at all maintained.

  Dick’s had to have been here before. But why?

  “Where are we?” John Craig said.

  “Our home away from home, I hope. I’ll tell you more once we’re inside.”

  Canidy skidded the bicycle to a stop at an apartment midway down the street. Its wooden door was a faded yellow, the paint peeling. Mounted above it, in a small space, was a small, weathered wooden crucifix. Four empty clay flowerpots painted bright colors were in a wrought-iron rack in front of the lone window.

  Canidy planted his feet on the ground as he steadied the bicycle.

  “Can you get off by yourself okay?” Canidy said over his shoulder.

  Canidy immediately felt John Craig put more
weight on his shoulders and then the bike shudder as he slid off. Canidy thought that the bicycle, free of its burden, could almost float. He then leaned it against the wall under the clay pots. He pulled the clay pot that was painted red out of its holder and reached in under it.

  He triumphantly held up a small object toward John Craig, and with a tone of satisfaction said, “Thank God for old habits.”

  Canidy moved to the yellow door.

  The key, John Craig figured out when he heard Canidy working the knob. So, he has been here before.

  Canidy then exclaimed: “I’ll be damned. It’s been kicked in.”

  Canidy pulled his .45 from the small of his back, then pushed at the door with his boot. It swung inward, its hinges making one long, low squeak.

  There were no lights burning in the apartment, and when Canidy reached inside and slapped at the switch, none came on.

  “Damn it,” he said, then carefully entered.

  John Craig saw the beam from Canidy’s flashlight sweeping the room.

  A moment later, he was back at the door. He rolled the bicycle inside, then said, “Get in here.”

  John Craig winced with pain as he shuffled through the door. He pushed it shut behind him, then had to push it twice more before it stayed shut.

  It was pitch-dark inside, but he could just make out that they were in the kitchen—and that the place had been trashed. Something crunched under his feet as he walked. And there was a faint fetid odor, as if something had been left to rot a long time ago.

  “Wait here,” Canidy said. “I’m going to check the rest of the house.”

  “Okay,” John Craig said, pulling out his .45 and putting his weight against what felt like a tile-covered counter by the front window.

  As he strained to make out any objects in the kitchen, he could hear Canidy moving quickly through the apartment. First there were the sounds of Dick opening and closing doors on the first floor, then ones of him pounding up the wooden stairs and searching the second floor end to end.

  He’s spent almost twice as much time upstairs.

  Then John Craig saw the yellow beam of Canidy’s flashlight filling the stairwell and heard the sound of him bounding down the stairs.

  As he entered the kitchen, the yellow beam briefly swept the room, then went out. In that short time John Craig could see that the place was more than just a sloppy shambles. It had been demolished. The table was overturned, the chairs broken, cupboard doors torn from their hinges, plates and drinking glasses shattered on the floor.

  “What the hell happened here?” John Craig said.

  “Nothing good, that’s for goddamn certain.”

  “Is the place empty?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I’ve got some bad news, which could be good news, and some really bad news.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait another few minutes until I can get some damn lights burning.”

  * * *

  It took Dick Canidy a good twenty minutes to find the rat’s nest of wires that was the main fuse box and then determine that the glass fuses—most of them anyway—were not blown or otherwise broken. Then he spent another ten minutes going methodically through both floors, flicking switches on and off, until he finally found a light that came on.

  It was on the first floor, in what had been a living room at the opposite end of the apartment from the kitchen. It was a lone bulb in an overhead fixture that somehow had survived the almost total destruction of everything in the apartment.

  It’s disturbing how—what? furious? psychopathic?—they had to be to destroy this place, Canidy thought as he unscrewed the bulb and the room went dark. I’m surprised they didn’t firebomb it for good measure.

  He then carefully cradled the bulb, flicked on his flashlight, and went back upstairs. This time, John Craig followed, pulling himself up the stairs using the handrail.

  John Craig was just reaching the top step when Canidy got the bulb installed. It lit the area fairly well, and John Craig now could see that the whole upper floor had been a bedroom.

  Then he gasped.

  In the middle of the room, with wrists and ankles tied by fabric to a wooden armchair that lay on its side, was the bloated corpse of a naked dark-haired man.

  “That’s the bad news I mentioned,” Canidy said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s not Tubes!”

  “No, of course not. But I’m not sure who the hell it is.”

  John Craig looked around, saw the bathroom door, and shuffled as fast as he could through it. The tiny room reverberated with his loud retching.

  Not so much throwing up as it is dry heaves, Canidy thought.

  There can’t be anything left in his stomach after all he threw up in the airplane.

  Canidy turned and got a better look at the dead man. He looked like he could be maybe thirty. He had a large nose and a black mustache. His thick black curly hair was matted with caked blood from the single bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

  He’s the spitting image of Frank Nola, just not as tall.

  Has to be his cousin Whatshisname . . . Mariano.

  I wonder if he was working with Frank? Or with the mob? Or is there really a difference?

  Almost every inch of the dead man’s olive skin was deeply bruised.

  He got the shit beat out of him.

  They must have started at his feet and worked their way to his face.

  Canidy then saw the man’s fingers.

  Correction.

  They started with pulling his fingernails, then probably went to his feet.

  Jesus did they work him over!

  Canidy saw that John Craig was standing in the door to the pisser, bracing himself on the doorframe as he stared at the body.

  “What is this place?” John Craig said.

  “It’s supposed to belong to Frank Nola’s cousin. I’m guessing that that’s who this guy is. They look alike, present condition notwithstanding.” He paused, then added, “Then again, maybe we will find Frank looking like this. . . .”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yeah, it’s one thing to read about this shit,” Canidy said, “but not so nice up close and personal, is it?”

  “You warned me,” John Craig said quietly. “You said it at the table with Captain Fine.”

  Canidy ignored his use of military rank.

  “Don’t try to understand it,” he said. “I sure as hell can’t.”

  John Craig nodded meekly.

  “Is this what happens because of that Hitler order?” he said. “The one ordering the killing of ‘enemies on commando missions’?”

  “‘In or out of uniform, with or without weapons,’” Canidy recited. “‘Slaughtered to the last man.’ The operative word being slaughtered.”

  He looked down at the dead man and added, “And this is a clear example of what Hitler meant when he said ‘should it be found necessary to spare one for interrogation,’ they’re to be shot immediately afterward.”

  John Craig, bent at the waist, made a sound that suggested he might have to throw up again. He somehow held it back.

  “What mission was he on?” he then said.

  “I don’t know. None. At least that’s my bet. But he could have been working for Frank and/or in the Mafia. Bottom line is that the SS believed him to be, and that was that. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that’s why he’s tied up with that. To make a point to whoever found him.”

  John Craig looked at the ivory-colored fabric knotted at the wrists and ankles.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s the significance?”

  Canidy reached down and picked up from the floor a length of the fabric. He tossed it to John Craig.

  He saw that it was about four feet long and a foot wide, with a couple inches of its edges stylishly frayed. He gently rubbed it between his fingertips. It was soft, and felt vaguely familiar.r />
  “So it’s a scarf,” John Craig said. “Probably a woman’s?”

  “It’s a silk scarf. There’s more in the closet.”

  John Craig looked, and saw a very familiar pile of ivory-colored silk.

  “A parachute! We air-dropped the money and everything that was asked for in the messages. So, the scarf is cut from it. . . .”

  “Right,” Canidy said.

  He thought, What did Nola say his cousin’s wife’s name was?

  Doesn’t matter . . . though “Idiot” comes to mind.

  “I’m guessing that this guy’s wife found the parachute and made herself that scarf from it. Then she paraded around Palermo with it, and some SS shithead saw it—or someone else saw it and snitched to the SS. So the SS made a little courtesy visit.”

  “And then they did this . . .” John Craig said, looking at the dead man.

  He stared at the dead man’s hands.

  “His fingernails . . .”

  “Pretty bad, huh?”

  “. . . They tore them out?”

  “No. They pulled them out. Slowly. It’s torture. Then, judging from the shape of the bruises, they beat the shit out of him with a cosh.”

  In addition to daggers and garrotes, John Craig’s training at OSS Dellys had had him practicing close-combat using a cosh. The limber paddle made of leather had a heavy lead ball sewn in its head. One smack alone caused deep pain; multiple hits, particularly to the temples, led to death.

  “Why?” John Craig said, his face looking ill. “Because he didn’t tell them what they wanted to know?”

  “That is possible, even probable, considering his bruises. But I’m thinking it’s because he couldn’t.”

  John Craig raised his eyebrows.

  “And that,” Canidy added, “is what might be the bad news that could be good news—good news for us.”

  Canidy walked over to the overturned and broken bed frames. They were against the far wall, which had a window. The mattresses had been shredded. It took him a minute to clear a large area of the wooden floor there, pushing the torn sheets and mattress pieces to either side of the room.

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” Canidy said.

  John Craig shuffled over to get a better view in the light of the lone bulb.

  Canidy shined his flashlight up and down the floorboards, pushed at a couple places with his fingers, then found what he was looking for and started to pull up a thin board. When that was out of the way, he tugged on a wider one until it started to come up.