Tom now shifted his attention to the photos of the man he had been asked to impersonate. He and Hauptsturmführer Kessler, in fact, bore quite a striking resemblance to each other, Tom realized with some degree of shock. Despite his earlier briefings, nothing had quite prepared him for the ocular proof, so to speak, that he had a German look-alike.
Kessler, Tom knew, was being transferred from Berlin to Rome to work in the Department for Jewish Affairs at SS headquarters at the Villa Wolkonsky. Allied intelligence had recently intercepted several coded transmissions detailing the German intention to eradicate the ghetto in Rome and deport the Jewish population. There had also been an ambiguously worded letter pilfered from the nunciature in Berlin, indicating that the Vatican might have been fully apprised of these plans. It was hoped that Tom would find some documentation of this, perhaps some correspondence, in classified files at the Villa Wolkonsky. It was not that the Allies were especially eager to assist the Jews of Rome, Tom understood, though he could not condone this position. But the extent of Vatican neutrality—or overt compliance with German plans—might influence the balance of power and have an effect, as yet unknown, upon the outcome of the Allied campaign.
The snapshots Tom was now examining appeared to cover a period of several months, given the changing weather conditions in the background. Some were close-ups of Kessler’s face, from different angles, and some had been taken from a distance, so that posture, stance, and body language were apparent. In several of the photos, the subject was in full military dress, and in others, he was at play—horseback riding, at a cocktail lounge, and, in one instance, in close proximity to an amply endowed blonde.
“The maps look fine,” Tom commented. “I see that you’ve circled one or two target points between SS headquarters and the safe house. What about the agents I’m supposed to liaise with?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be meeting with two British operatives who’ll be positioned in the apartment—here are their photos—and another who is the bait. She’s already begun her stakeout at the nightclub circled there, The Blue Angel, on Algemeinerstrasse. She’s a real looker,” Montgomery chuckled. “He won’t be able to resist.”
“By the way, we’ve also gathered some intelligence about Kessler’s sexual preferences. You do know about the Nazi’s Lebensborn project don’t you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he continued enthusiastically. “They’ve actually got three locations for their orgies in Berlin alone, and two just outside the city. You should see these places! Not that I have myself, but I hear that wine and beer flow there like the Rhine in a year of heavy rainfall. And almost every room in each of these mansions has been turned into a bedroom.
“We’ve managed to place some moles there—a butler and two housemaids—at the house that Kessler has been assigned to. What a joke! These guys get to fuck in the name of patriotism and produce all those illegitimate kids who are supposed to be the ultimate Aryan offspring that will preserve the Reich! We’ve been told that Kessler favors buxom blondes, the dumber the better. And he’s not too particular about whether they’ve been helped along by a healthy dose of peroxide.
“By the way,” Montgomery went on, “we even have some information on his preferred positions, if you take my meaning. Our agents have managed to install some peepholes in a few of the bedrooms at the Lebensborn house. And since the butler is the one who conducts the officers to their little love nests, he was able to ensure that we received enough concrete information about Kessler’s likes and dislikes.”
Montgomery grinned and added, “One of the more interesting perks of his job, you might say.”
Tom smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “I guess so. At least our agent will know what to expect. What about transportation to the military airport after the subject is removed?”
“Also taken care of. The Gestapo provides for its own. You’ll use the target’s uniform, and we’ve had some jackboots custom-made for you, in your own size, which probably differs from his. We’ve scuffed them up a bit to make them look gently worn. Don’t want you to stick out like a sore thumb or anything.
“Our reconnaissance team has indicated that your height and build are quite similar to his, so his clothing should fit you perfectly. All you need to do is change your haircut and straighten out your posture a bit. Those Nazi bastards are rather stiff. You’ll need to study the photos, but you’ll have to work quickly. Our barber will take care of your hair. The rest, as you Americans say, is a piece of cake.
“One other thing, though. We’ll have to give you one of those SS tattoos with your, or rather his, blood type. Sorry about that. But this is a deep cover operation, and we can deal with removal of the tattoo after we win this bloody war.
“I cannot emphasize this enough—look over those photos carefully. You must be able to duplicate the posture and arrogance precisely. We certainly have enough examples of it in the file."
“I understand,” Tom replied.
“We’ll have a Lysander ready to transport you tomorrow night, at 23 hours. The usual place. Wear your civvies. That is, the ones we’re providing for you—German tailored down to the last detail. Even the underwear and socks will be of German manufacture. We can’t afford to take any chances.
“The drop-off will be along the French border, near Strasbourg, and Armand’s Resistance group will see to it that you reach Berlin all in good time. From there you’ll be taken to one of our safe houses. We think Kessler will be moved to Rome in about five days’ time. The information is there, inside the packet. I’ve no doubt you’ll read it thoroughly.”
“Done, sir.”
Tom got up, saluted, and headed for the door. Outside, the moon winked through the clouds and disappeared. A perfect night for a covert flight to France, he mused. Let’s hope that tomorrow will be the same.
Chapter Sixteen
Elena waited in a narrow hallway outside the Mother Superior’s office at the convent of the Order of the Holy Sisters on the Via Padrone. She was somewhat apprehensive as she waited for Father Donato. He had told Elena that he wished to explain her situation calmly and concisely to Mother Teresa, and that he had certain other delicate issues to discuss that Elena need not be privy to, for her own protection.
She wondered briefly if Father Donato was somehow involved in Resistance work, but quickly dismissed the thought, taking this opportunity, seated on the edge of a well-worn wooden chair, to reflect on her position. She had no idea for how long she would be allowed to remain in the convent or what the other nuns would be told about the circumstances of her possibly prolonged stay. She was equally uncertain about how she would be able to leave Rome eventually and where she could possibly go.
She knew that she had some cousins, on her mother’s side of the family, somewhere in the Friuli region up north, in Udine and Trieste. But they were distant relatives whose names and precise connections to her mother she could remember only vaguely. She had no idea how to contact them, no addresses, no telephone numbers, no notion of what their political sympathies might be, and above all, no idea as to how they might react to the burden of taking in an extra household member. It would be impossible to arrange for food ration coupons without giving away her identity and city of origin, though she knew that she probably had enough money to buy basic necessities on the black market, if such a thing existed in the Friuli, as it did in Rome.
And, of course, at the back of her mind there was the constant fear that she might be pregnant. She could not even begin to imagine how the Mother Superior would react—if she were capable of understanding how something of this sort could happen to a girl from a good Catholic family, as she was sure Father Donato was describing her to be. And how could she hope to find sympathy from relatives she’d never met, if it came to that, even if contact could be made and she could become a paid boarder in their home?
Worst of all, she felt disloyal to her dead lover. Shouldn’t she, in fact, be praying that something of him woul
d have remained with her? That something of him would survive the madness of this war? Shouldn’t she really be hoping that she was pregnant?
It would be at least a week or two until she could know for certain if she were really carrying Niccolò’s child. She’d been late once or twice in the past, when exams and the habitual anxiety of striving for academic excellence had taken its toll. Meantime, she would have to conceal this extra burden of fear as best as she could.
The door now opened, and Mother Teresa beckoned Elena into the room.
“Father Donato has explained everything, my child,” she said. “You may stay for as long as you need to. For your own sake—to ensure your safety and to protect us from prying eyes—we'll try to find some plausible cover story to explain your presence here in the convent.
“Father Donato has suggested that we tell the other nuns that you're a novice. That you've found your true vocation in the Church, despite your family’s objections. I'll explain that you need time to think, away from the pressures of the outside world. They'll respect your desire for privacy, for contemplation.
“I'll arrange for a comfortable room and suitable clothing. You'll be given a novice’s habit, which will aid in hiding your identity and help you blend in. Your duties will be explained to you by one of the other Sisters. We'll try to assimilate you as fully as possible into the life of our convent.
“And should you desire—or need—to leave the protection of our walls . . . well, we'll assist you in any manner at our disposal.”
She glanced at the old priest, who nodded cautiously at the frightened girl and explained, “We have our ways and means, Elena. You needn’t concern yourself with what they involve at the moment. You will be safe here for now. Perhaps even until the end of the war, if you choose.”
“Now come, my dear,” the Mother Superior said gently, ringing for her assistant. “I will introduce you to Sister Lucia and the others.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler! You may be seated, Hauptsturmführer.”
Jurgen Kessler stood at attention, his arm shooting out in the traditional Nazi salute, his polished jackboots clicking together in perfect synchrony. He had just entered the richly appointed offices of Hermann Goebbels at the Wehrmacht, or War Office. The furniture was massive, as good Aryan taste dictated, a reflection of the solidity of the Reich and its thousand-year old values. A gleaming, black leather sofa with button upholstery on its seat and back rested against one wall, and the draperies were a dull red, picking up the colors of the vaguely oriental carpet underfoot.
“‘Heil Hitler!’ I said. At ease. Please, sit down, Hauptsturmführer Kessler,” Goebbels repeated crisply.
Kessler sat down on the chair indicated, near an imposing desk, and glanced quickly around the room as the German Minister of Propaganda shuffled through some papers. The walls were decorated with Nazi artwork typical of the period. Large, clumsy oils of Aryan-looking types loomed nearly larger than life. The figures held up farming implements or posed with healthy-looking children—husky, solid, blond-haired and blue-eyed—the glowing future of the Reich’s untainted gene pool personified.
Most of these works had been made available to Goebbels by the Reichskammer der bildenen Kunste, the Reich Chamber for the Visual Arts, in cooperation with the Chamber of Culture, the Reichskulturkammer. These two agencies, of course, had even more valuable pieces of art in their possession, works that would never grace the walls of Wehrmacht or Abwehr offices, and that could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be categorized as pure Aryan art. These were designated for the private collections of the Führer and his closest associates, made available to them through plunder, the occasional purchase, and gifts from those who wished to curry favor with the powerful and mighty. All were legitimate resources, from the German perspective, in times of war.
Kessler had been summoned half an hour ago to the Wehrmacht’s central office in Berlin, hurried out of his favorite nightclub, The Blue Angel, without a clue as to the apparently pressing reason for the inconvenience. Now, it seemed, he was about to be informed.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Hauptsturmführer. I am sure you are terribly curious about this unusual request to present yourself here at this time of night. Naturally we are sorry to drag you away from your evening’s entertainment, but the business of the Reich must always take precedence over personal pleasure, as you no doubt understand.”
“Of course.”
Kessler sat up straight and nodded his head expectantly. He was a 29-year-old bachelor, tall, with fair hair, grayish-blue eyes, and a build that had already made him a greatly favored participant in the Nazis’ Lebensborn project.
Lebensborn was the Reich’s ultimate plan to ensure the continuation of the Aryan race and its greatest physical and intellectual qualities. The best looking Nazi officers were literally brought to stud with female volunteers of the proper physical type. The young women were proud to have been selected to mate with these virile young men, who eagerly attempted to impregnate them, all in the name of the Fatherland.
As a matter of fact, Kessler hoped that he was now about to be dispatched to one of the many mansions maintained for just this purpose both in the city and on the outskirts of Berlin, where sexual congress took place around the clock to guarantee the preservation of the Reich and its Aryan superiority.
He listened impassively, with no small measure of disappointment, however well masked, as he learned that he was about to be sent to Italy to help in the implementation of its Racial Laws and the planned deportation of degenerate racial groups. All of this would take place within the next several weeks.
“We intend for you to serve as liaison between Field Marshal Kesselring’s office in Rome and Italian administrative offices,” Goebbels informed Kessler as he handed him a sealed envelope with orders. “Kesselring and Weizsäcker have most things under control, but we cannot allow for any complications, particularly any potential interference by the Catholic Church. You will see what I mean when you get there.
“I think you should know that we have managed to break some of the codes used by the Pope and his associates in their correspondence and radio transmissions. And of course their diplomatic pouch deliveries from Berlin and other nunciatures have been, shall we say, compromised as thoroughly as possible.
“Unfortunately, however, the Vatican has recently come up with a new, more sophisticated system, the KIF, which we have not yet been able to break, so your role in gathering information will be critical.”
“I understand,” Kessler replied soberly.
“We are well aware that the Catholic Church may be pressured into placing some obstacles in the path of our resolution of the Jewish problem in Italy,” Goebbels observed with distaste, “though so far they have made no attempt to interfere in our activities within the Reich itself. We believe that that is because it is also in their own interests. After all, the Church has never been particularly fond of Jews.
“But because the Jews of Rome live practically within the shadow of the Apostolic Palace, we must make every effort to ensure that no misplaced sentiments of responsibility for their welfare will be allowed to influence the Vatican’s behavior.”
Kessler nodded sagely, indicating his appreciation for the unusual delicacy of the situation.
“There are some other important facts that you must bear in mind, as well, direct regarding this assignment,” Goebbels continued. “We consider the Church to be a threat to the success of our plans precisely because it transcends borders and regards itself as a supreme temporal, as well as religious, authority.
“Our attempts to recruit informants to provide intelligence on Vatican activities have had only limited success. You will need to come up with an appropriate strategy for dealing with the more recalcitrant figures in the Vatican—to convince them of the priority of our needs over what they may perceive as their own special interests. Fahrstehen sie?”
&nbs
p; “Of course.”
“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Hauptsturmführer. Your job will not only be to obtain and assess information, but to persuade these individuals to cooperate. I believe that you now understand why I myself, in my capacity as Minister of Propaganda, have gone to the trouble of briefing you personally. And let me add that although we have been laying the foundations for this assignment for many months, we felt it best to wait until now to apprise you of the role you will play.
“We have been observing your very satisfactory performance for a long time and feel sure that you will come up with some means of handling the situation, no matter what it takes. And here I will not mince my words. You will not only need to make yourself conversant with all of the workings of the Department for Jewish Affairs at our headquarters in Rome, but will need to make yourself available to entertain various important individuals in the Vatican, both formally and informally.
“A certain budget will be allocated to you for this part of the job. And if necessary, you will find out precisely what the, let us call them, ‘recreational’ needs of these important individuals are and arrange for them. We operate our own little circle of very attractive young women in Rome, both German and Italian, who can provide every service imaginable and cater to every taste, with all of the necessary discretion that this entails.
“Of course, there may be some whose preferences run to handsome young men. I would not wish to trouble you personally in that direction, despite your classic Aryan good looks—and of course, knowing how enthusiastically you have embraced your Lebensborn duties, you could find that somewhat distasteful. But I am sure you will be able to oblige in figuring out a way to satisfy everyone.”
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