Kappler sat on the leather-upholstered couch, carefully sipping coffee from a fine china cup. A china coffee service that had been brought in by SS-Scharführer Günther Burger was on the low table before him.
Everything about Müller looked worse than usual—he had huge dark bags under his unpleasant dark eyes, his paunch was distinctly bloated, his thin black hair stuck out at odd angles.
You look like shit, Hans ol’ buddy.
And from all that booze you clearly feel like it, too.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy . . .
“Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Müller said after he sank into the leather chair behind his desk and picked up his coffee cup. “I thank you for being understanding about having to postpone the review of the warehouse until later. I thought that they understood my orders to be prepared this morning. I will deal with them later, and I promise you it won’t happen again.”
Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, you bastard?
We’re not going anywhere because you’re too damn hungover.
You’re just lucky that I drank far more than I should have.
And that I did not actually get a lot of sleep.
If I felt any better myself, I’d insist we go just so that I could enjoy watching you suffer. . . .
“Very well,” Kappler said, “but I will need to review it before my return to Messina.”
Müller seemed to wince as he sipped his steaming coffee.
I bet you’d love to have a little hair of the dog in there.
Then again, for all I know, you do. Günther served you away from me.
As Müller closed his eyes and rubbed them, he said, “And when would that be? What I mean is, when do you plan to return? You have just arrived here.”
“I am not sure at the moment.”
Müller grinned as he opened his eyes.
“I trust then that you had a pleasurable evening?” he said.
Kappler met his eyes.
The last you saw me, you bastard, was as I walked up to my room alone.
While you stood in the lobby with both Maria and Lucia.
Did Jimmy Palasota report to you that Lucia shared my room?
Or is it you who has that suite watched?
“I slept well, if that is what you are asking.”
“Yes,” Müller said. “I’m sure that you did.”
Did Lucia say anything?
Of course she did!
Mata Hari and so damn many others have proven one cannot trust women in bed, that anyone could be a spy.
Nietzsche said it: “In revenge and love, women are more barbaric than men.”
Still, Lucia did not attempt any “innocent” pillow talk—and even if she had, I do not speak Sicilian and she does not understand German.
He took a sip of his coffee and had a flashback of their night.
Spy or not, what a delight that girl is!
“Müller, can you tell me what information you have gathered concerning the American invasion?”
Müller made a face.
“There is not any information,” he said matter-of-factly, “because the invasion will not take place here.”
Kappler stared at him, wondering, Is that the alcohol talking? Or just plain arrogance?
Pantelleria, only a hundred kilometers away, actually is being bombed.
I suppose I cannot blame him. Until fire falls from the sky, it must be hard to believe that there’s a war going on.
Yet it is a fact that the Americans went into North Africa with enough forces to eventually rout the Afrika Korps. Our intelligence reports show that they captured more than a quarter-million of our troops.
And this shortly after Generalfeldmarschall von Paulus’s Sixth Army was embarrassingly surrendered at Stalingrad. What was that? Another million lost?
So it’s really no small wonder that there aren’t troops massing on this shitty little island.
Müller went on, his tone sarcastic: “It is my understanding that we soon will have the honor of the Panzer Division Hermann Göring—with two battalions and ninety-nine tanks—and the Fifteenth Panzergrenadier Division, with three grenadier infantry regiments and a sixty-tank battalion. And of course our superior Luftwaffe forces.” He paused, then added: “Forgive me, but I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“You will see it,” Kappler said automatically, hoping he sounded convincing. “They are beginning to arrive in Messina. We have been promised that by early July there will be one hundred and fifty thousand Italian troops, plus twenty thousand German troops and that many more to support the Luftwaffe.”
“Again, I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, then drained his coffee cup. “As you may know, last night we were expecting the arrival of a Gigant. It never showed up. When I called out to the airfield this morning, all I got were runaround answers to my questions. The only thing I know for sure is the gottverdammt aircraft is not at the Palermo airfield. The aircraft was supposed to be transporting eighty-eights—packed with the big guns and ammo for our coastal defenses—and I’m betting that it was diverted, that it flew right over us and landed in, probably, Naples. Which is fine with me.”
Kappler looked at him silently.
“Let them fight the damn war there,” Müller explained. “I’m comfortable here.”
Kappler then said, “Did you not get the intelligence report? That there was the bombing of Pantelleria on May eighteenth?”
Müller suddenly laughed, then looked sorry for having done so. He rubbed his temples and said, “Yes, to watch the troopers—especially the Italians—running around here shitting themselves and ready to shoot at anything that moved—usually each other—was rather humorous. After a couple days, they calmed down.” He chuckled. “That could be because a lot of them wore themselves out at the Hotel Michelangelo.”
“They what?”
Müller nodded. “They were with the women and wine. Our hotel made quite a profit for nearly a week—until the troopers realized not a single bomb had landed anywhere near them.”
Kappler grunted.
He said: “What about the intelligence report that states the same May eighteenth bombing of Pantelleria will commence here June seventh?”
This time Müller grunted.
“If one believes everything one hears, then the invasion itself is to take place on that date. We’ve been monitoring the radio traffic of the Americans and . . .”
“And what?” Kappler said. “You seem very sure of yourself.”
Müller locked eyes with him.
“Would you like to know a secret?”
I’m your superior officer, you arrogant bastard!
I have the right to know everything that you do—and more!
“I suppose,” Kappler replied, as he went to sip his coffee.
Müller stood, a little too quickly, and wobbled a bit, then motioned for Kappler to follow.
* * *
They went up a raw stone stairwell to the top floor of the SS Provisional Headquarters building.
They came to a wooden door that was locked.
“Open up!” Müller called, as he rattled the doorknob.
After a long moment, the sound of the lock turning could be heard. When the door swung open, SS-Scharführer Otto Lieber stood there.
What the hell? Kappler thought.
Otto stepped aside as Müller waved Kappler inside. Otto then closed and locked the door.
Kappler then saw Günther Burger sitting at a desk in front of what appeared to be a telegraph radio station. He held a headset to his ear.
Those switches and dials are labeled in English!
“An American wireless,” Kappler said.
Müller nodded.
“Shortly after the explosions,” he began, careful not to reveal anything to the scharführers, “I discovered a spy cell. Intact. We interrogated its operator—an American spy—and were then able to successfully convince his handlers that we were him. That he was us.
That . . .”
“I understand. The Americans believe their man still is secretly spying.”
“Exactly.”
“Why am I just now learning of this, Müller?”
Müller seemed hesitant to answer, and glanced at the scharführers and then at Kappler.
“I will explain later, if that is acceptable.”
Kappler didn’t respond to that. After a moment, he said, “What happened with the radio operator?”
“I like to believe,” Müller began, carefully choosing his words, “that I am faithfully living up to Der Führer’s order about how enemy commandos are to be handled.”
Immediately executed, Kappler thought.
Or, if interrogation is necessary, immediately after that.
With you, I should have known . . .
“As insurance, I have him locked up,” Müller said. “To satisfy Der Führer’s order, it is arguable that I continue with his interrogation.”
Then you didn’t kill? That’s a first.
What’s the real reason for that?
Müller then looked to Burger.
“Anything, Günther?”
“We got a contact this morning, Herr Sturmbannführer. It was not much but came in very clear and strong. That storm last night must have cleared the air.”
“What did they say?”
“Just that they were checking in and would be in touch later with some important questions.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That we’d be waiting. And that we’d probably need additional supplies.”
Müller grinned.
He looked at Kappler and explained.
“Supplies are our little code word for more bribes.”
Müller looked back at Burger.
“Let’s give it a little test. When they contact again, Günther, send a request for an airdrop. Ask for some gold and Italian lire. Tell him”—he looked at Kappler and grinned—“that you’re trying to bribe the head SS officer in Messina.”
Here he goes again like Göring . . .
[FOUR]
Palermo, Sicily
0915 31 May 1943
Dick Canidy stood watching the midget knock on a heavy metal door.
The man had led him on what seemed a circuitous route from the storage room, taking what clearly were hidden passageways. They occasionally offered glimpses of the public spaces of the whorehouse.
After leaving the storage room, they first passed through a laundry room and then a kitchen. Some workers acknowledged the midget as they passed, but did not seem to pay any particular attention to Canidy.
It’s as if Shorty does this on a regular basis.
They had then taken a back hallway, passing a couple of attractive young women. They exchanged greetings with the midget as they passed.
Was one of them the girl who opened the door?
Are they all hookers?
They then came to a stairwell and took it up one flight.
Okay, now we’re on the first floor, street level again.
Walking down another passageway, Canidy briefly saw what looked like a bar—A lounge?—then some steps past that got a view of what looked like a lobby and the ten or so people in it.
Jesus! Those two Aryan teens sitting there could’ve been ripped from a recruitment poster for the SS!
The midget had then led Canidy around a corner and they finally arrived at the heavy metal door.
* * *
After the man knocked on it, he immediately opened the door without waiting for an answer.
Canidy could see that there was a somewhat cluttered office, and that a petite, full-figured dark-haired woman he guessed to be in her middle twenties stood before a large wooden desk. The casually dressed man behind the desk—he was about forty, muscular and rugged, with a warm face and thick brown hair—was handing her what Canidy decided was a small stack of cash. The man appeared to be showing genuine concern to the young woman. He spoke to her in Sicilian; Canidy couldn’t understand it, of course, but thought that he said it in a soothing tone.
“Grazie,” she replied softly, taking the cash and folding it, then slipping it inside the waistband of her skirt.
She nodded once and, head down, turned to leave.
Canidy saw that she, too, was attractive.
“Maria,” the midget cordially greeted her, as Canidy had just seen him do with the others, as she passed.
When she looked up and smiled meekly, Canidy saw that she had a hugely bruised right eye.
What the hell? Did she get beat up?
Maria put her head back down and went out the door, pulling it closed behind her.
Canidy saw the man look from the door to him.
“Welcome to the Hotel Michelangelo,” the man then said pleasantly, and in English, as he got to his feet.
Hotel? Canidy thought.
Canidy saw that on the desk before the man was his letter of introduction from Charley Lucky.
“Jimmy Palasota,” the man said, and offered his hand.
After hearing Palasota fluently speak Sicilian with what sounded like a native’s tongue, Canidy was surprised not only that he spoke any English at all but that he clearly was fluent in it, too.
“Dick Canidy,” he said, realizing he probably was being repetitive as his name was spelled out in the letter of introduction. “It’s a nice surprise to hear you speak English. I was afraid I was going to be flogging a dead horse trying to mime to get past the language barrier.”
Palasota smiled, and motioned for Canidy to take a seat in the chair.
“It will be good to speak and hear English again,” Palasota said as he sat back in his seat. He gestured at the midget, who now stood off in the corner, watching, and added, “Vito here says Antonio Buda brought you.”
Vito? I like “Shorty” better.
Canidy looked at the midget, who was keeping an eye on him while pulling out a cigarette and then lighting it.
But something tells me that you wouldn’t.
He then noticed that there were two Thompson submachine guns leaning upright in the corner within Vito’s reach.
Even more American-made weapons.
Canidy looked back at Palasota and said, “Yeah. I met the Buda brothers through their cousin, Frank Nola.”
“I am familiar with Francisco.”
“You are? Have you seen him?”
“Not in quite a while. No one seems to have. I was wondering about that.”
“I need to find him.”
“You want to tell me what that’s all about?”
Honest answer? I don’t know. Do I?
And what exactly do I tell you?
I don’t even know who the hell you are.
Be very careful, Dick, because you really don’t know how much devil you’re dancing with here.
Palasota picked up the letter.
“Okay, then you want to tell me where you got this?”
Canidy reached into his jacket and came out with Luciano’s handkerchief.
“Same place I got this,” he said, handing it to Palasota.
Palasota examined it briefly and nodded.
“Look,” he said, tossing the handkerchief on the letter of introduction, “I’m not doubting these. I happen to know they’re the real deal. I’m just asking for some background. You’re American, obviously. But you’re not one of Hoover’s G-men.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me, I know. For one, they don’t have the guts to be behind enemy lines. And even if they did, and they actually did something, J. Edgar couldn’t call a press conference and brag about it.”
Canidy chuckled.
“So,” Palasota went on, “if you’re not FBI, I’m guessing some kind of military intelligence. Am I close?”
“I’m a friend of Frank Nola, as I said, and I’m trying to find him. That’s all I’m going to give you right now.”
“Well, that much Antonio gave Vito. That and he said Nola told
him that you have risked your life for the family and for Sicily. So, now you and I have an honorable understanding.” He gestured at the handkerchief and letter. “Thanks to our mutual friends, that makes you gli amici. Capiche?”
Canidy grinned.
“You find something funny about that?” Palasota said evenly.
“No. It’s just that that’s almost the same exact friend-of-a-friend speech I got from a wise guy who runs Fulton Fish Market in New York City.”
Palasota then grinned.
“Aha! So it was Tommy Socks who got you to Charley Lucky?”
They locked eyes a long moment.
“Tommy”? Canidy thought. Is this a test?
“‘Tommy Socks’?” Canidy repeated.
Palasota nodded. “Sure. Tommy Socks Gambino. You know . . .”
It is a test!
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t fucking know,” Canidy said, sharply sarcastic.
Canidy noticed Vito, who picked up on his tone of voice, stand a little more rigidly, his hands discreetly crossed at his belly so that his right hand was on his Colt.
Canidy went on: “Where did you say you were from?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Palasota then broke eye contact and laughed.
Fuck it, Canidy then thought. What’s to lose?
“It’s Joe Socks,” he said, “and you damn well know it. Lanza is my go-between with Luciano at Great Meadow prison. And for the record, I don’t like being fucked with.”
“Easy, my friend,” Palasota said calmly. “Just take it easy. I had to make sure you knew who was close enough to Charley Lucky to provide those items. Tell me, how is my old friend Joey Socks?”
Canidy saw that Vito relaxed at hearing Palasota’s calming tone.
“Last I saw him,” Canidy said, “in March, he was having a little trouble at the docks and had to whack at least a couple bastards.”
“That’s Lanza. Damn good guy. I miss him.”
“He was here?”
Palasota shook his head. “I was there, in New York City.”
“Doing what?”
Palasota met his eyes again and said, “I’m Jimmy Skinny.”
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 27