Kappler continued: “—and, in view of my present problems, I could not be more grateful for your counsel in seeing that my South America incorporation was—is—completely independent of its German counterpart . . .”
Is he reading my mind? Dulles thought.
And he should mean: What’s left of its German counterpart. Because Royal Air Force and Army Air Force bombers have been wiping out German refineries.
“. . . especially,” Kappler finished, “with the Allied bombing missions indiscriminately taking out Farben’s manufacturing plants.”
There he goes reading my mind again!
And if he’s bothered by those bombings, he won’t be thrilled with these photographs.
“Not at all indiscriminately, Wolffy. Their targets are ‘POL’ plants—for Petroleum, Oil, Lubricants. Other facilities may be targets of opportunity or, perhaps, as happens in the fog of war, mistakes. And you are indeed fortunate that your companies in South America have no link—direct or indirect—to their German counterparts. Because if there was any indication that they in any manner aided the Axis, they would be taken out. Not necessarily by U.S. bombers out of Brazil, of course, but by other quiet and equally effective means.”
At Canoas Air Force Base near the southern tip of Brazil—some two hundred miles north of its border with Uruguay—the U.S. Army Air Forces had a detachment of its 26th Antisubmarine Wing, based out of Miami, Florida. The U-boat hunters patrolled the Atlantic Ocean with a mix of light, medium, and heavy bombers—Lockheed A-29 Hudsons, North American B-25 Mitchells, and Boeing B-17 Flying Fortresses—any of which could easily reach a target in Argentina.
While it would be an act of war for the 26th’s aircraft to attack a facility in a neutral country, Kappler knew that the OSS had sabotage teams. And he had an image flash in his mind of Augustus Compania Industrial y Mercentil Limitada and Augustus Carbonera Argentina S.A.—his steel and coal manufacturing plants just up the River Plate from Buenos Aires—going up in flames.
He met Dulles’s eyes for a long moment.
Dulles, puffing on his pipe, did not blink.
Kappler nodded, then looked away in thought.
After another long moment he said: “There are of course those who are betting the Germans will win the war, and so have no reservations doing business with them. Particularly when it is quite profitable to do so with the cheap laborers supplied by the SS. And there are those who refuse to do so. . . .”
His voice trailed off as he looked at Dulles.
When Dulles was working in Berlin for Sullivan and Cromwell, he had become disgusted with the viciousness of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party and Hitler’s goal for a judenrein—a Jew-clean—Germany. He had lobbied to have the law firm close its Berlin office and cease doing business with any company conducting any kind of trade with the Nazis. That had represented a remarkable amount of income for the firm, but Dulles declared it to be “blood money,” among other just descriptions that would reflect poorly on the firm, particularly its partners.
He ultimately won on both counts. The law office in Berlin was quietly closed. Sullivan and Cromwell then sent letters explaining why the firm was taking such measures to those clients with any connection to the Third Reich. Among them were Thyssen, Kappler, and Gustav Krupp, head of the four-hundred-year-old Friedrich Krupp A.G., the largest corporation not only in Germany but in all of Europe.
“Gustav Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach is an über-Nazi,” Kappler said bitterly. “Hitler is his hero—he practically drools in his presence—and so Hitler has no worries about his loyalty. Krupp, after Thyssen fled here to Switzerland, is the main reason that the industry in the Ruhr Valley continues producing at near capacity—he has his plants as well as Thyssen’s entire Vereinigte Stahlwerke that Hitler seized. It would not surprise me that it was Gustav who pressured Bormann to seize Chemische Fabrik.”
Dulles puffed on his pipe as he listened.
“And,” Kappler finished, “he probably wants all of mine nationalized, too—which would explain Marty Bormann’s threat.”
“What precisely,” Dulles then asked, “got Fritz Thyssen in hot water with Hitler? Was it that letter he wrote?”
“Yes,” Kappler said, “mostly it was his denouncing of Nazism, particularly after being a high-profile early supporter, which was the same as denouncing Hitler himself. So, after Thyssen left the country with his family, an angry Hitler declared him a traitor, stripped him of his citizenship, and—”
A knock at the door interrupted his thought.
As Kappler and Dulles looked toward it, the door swung open and the OSS agent reappeared.
“Mr. Dulles, Herr Doktor Bernhard?”
Dulles felt Kappler’s eyes on him, and when he looked he could see Kappler’s expression was that of questioning.
He’s wondering who the hell is interrupting what he thought was supposed to be our secret meeting.
Well, this should be as interesting as I thought it would be. . . .
[FIVE]
OSS Dellys Station
Dellys, Algeria
1130 30 May 1943
Major Richard Canidy, USAAF, sitting in the left seat of the UC-81 aircraft—the military designation for the small four-seat Stinson Reliant—applied more throttle to its single 240-horsepower Lycoming radial piston engine. As he put the high-wing tail-dragger into a steep bank, he caught in the corner of his eye that John Craig van der Ploeg, staring wide-eyed out from under his unruly wiry black hair, had a death grip on his seat.
Oh hell . . .
Canidy casually reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. When van der Ploeg jerked his head to him, Canidy formed a circle with his index finger and thumb, then raised his eyebrows, the gesture asking Are you going to be okay?
Van der Ploeg suddenly looked at his hands and realized he’d reflexively grabbed his seat. He immediately forced himself to let go. Then he nodded and made an okay sign in reply.
Canidy nodded back, but thought, You damn sure don’t look okay.
But at least you’re trying to force yourself to get over your phobias.
Otherwise, this is going to be one helluva long mission. . . .
Canidy turned his attention to outside the windscreen, to the dirt landing strip beneath them. The rough runway had been carved out on the backside of the ridge from where Dellys overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. At this altitude of 1,600 feet ASL—above sea level—they could still easily see the small city of low white buildings set into the hillside with a small semicircular harbor at the bottom. Canidy was reminded of Stan Fine describing it as a small-scale version of Algiers, which was some sixty-odd miles due west.
At the landing strip’s eastern end, next to a Nissen hut, were two olive drab aircraft sitting side by side. The bigger of the two, a twin-engine tail-dragger, was a C-47. A jeep had been parked by the Gooney Bird’s nose.
That should be our bird to Sicily. . . .
The second aircraft was another UC-81. Canidy watched as it began moving, taxiing maybe fifty feet, and then turning onto what on an improved runway would have been a well-marked threshold, complete with numbers “27” to indicate the compass heading of 270 degrees. Here, however, it was all just raw dirt. If not for the presence of the airplanes and the orange windsock above the hut, it would’ve been easy to mistake the strip as nothing more than a wide swath in a crude road that cut through the lush green hillside.
Canidy continued banking his Stinson, going around so that he would touch down almost exactly where the aircraft had taxied now.
As he leveled out and lined up with the strip, they hit a thermal. The wave of hot air rising off the ground tossed the aircraft, causing it to suddenly rise then drop. Although the harness straps kept them snug in their seats, John Craig van der Ploeg immediately grabbed his seat bottom—then almost as quickly realized he had done so, and released his grip, forcing his hands to his knees. He took a fast series of shallow breaths.
Good job,
Canidy thought, keeping his focus forward as van der Ploeg’s eyes darted his way to see if Canidy had caught him.
Canidy now saw the UC-81 on the ground suddenly kick up a cloudburst of tan dirt as the pilot gave the engine full takeoff power. The plane then started accelerating and almost immediately became airborne. With a climb rate of 1,300 feet per minute, it quickly gained altitude.
Canidy decreased his throttle and, with his airspeed dropping, began lowering his flaps. As the aircraft settled into a smooth, steady descent, and he tweaked the throttle, he now realized that John Craig van der Ploeg had been watching his every move with rapt fascination—and that he was staring with what looked like genuine interest at the altimeter and its needles creeping counterclockwise.
That brought back memories of his time as an instructor pilot at Pensacola Naval Air Station.
I should’ve let him fly this thing. It would have taken his damn mind off being enclosed.
Well, maybe next time.
No. Definitely next time.
Him knowing how to fly is a skill that could come in handy.
With the altimeter needles indicating they were passing through eight hundred feet ASL, Dellys disappeared behind the ridgeline. Canidy, with the aircraft now quickly approaching the threshold of the dirt strip, brought it in while keeping enough altitude to just pass over the almost dissipated dirt cloud. He then settled the aircraft down, the wheels of the fixed main gear gently touching ground and kicking up their own dirt cloud. The tailwheel then found the runway.
Greased it! Canidy thought, and grinned inwardly.
The Stinson lightly bounced along the uneven dirt strip as Canidy taxied to where the other UC-81 had just been beside the Gooney Bird. Canidy now saw that a guard was sitting in the driver seat of the jeep. He wore a U.S. Army uniform with no insignia. A Colt .45 in a holster hung from his web belt, and a .30 caliber carbine rested across his lap.
He must have gone inside the hut to avoid getting sandblasted by the propwash.
Canidy gave the guard a thumbs-up as he applied the brakes and chopped the power. The propeller slowed as the engine chugged dead. The guard got out of the jeep, grabbed two sets of wheel chocks from the back, then moved toward the aircraft.
In the quiet cockpit, Canidy threw the master switch, then glanced at his Hamilton chronometer wristwatch.
Exactly twenty minutes to cover the sixty miles from Algiers.
Not bad for a little bird . . . could take this to Sicily if we absolutely had no other choice.
But what a long damn ride that’d be.
And we’d have to find a place to hide it, and a way to refuel it. . . .
John Craig van der Ploeg turned to him, forced a smile, and made a thumbs-up gesture.
And I’m not sure he’d make it, Canidy thought as he pulled off his headset.
Despite the sweat on his forehead giving him away, he’s trying like hell to put a good face on his fear.
Then he thought: Damn I miss this! These seat-of-the-pants puddle jumpers are fun—but nothing like flying fighters. . . .
Canidy gestured with his thumb to the back of the aircraft and said, “Let’s leave the gear there until we find out where it—and we—go.”
John Craig van der Ploeg glanced back at the hefty black duffel bags and two parachute packs, then gave him another thumbs-up. He nodded, his mop of thick black hair bouncing as he did so.
Canidy, watching the guard start tying down the aircraft, unfastened his harness.
He thought, Well, we are way ahead of where we were just two hours ago.
But still just barely getting fucking started . . .
* * *
“Bad news,” Captain Stanley S. Fine had announced to Canidy and John Craig two hours earlier at his desk at OSS Algiers Station.
Fine had set up his office in what before the war had been the villa’s reading room. It was on the second of the Sea View Villa’s four floors. In its center, four enormous dark leather chairs, each with its own reading lamp, were arranged around a low square stone table. The walls were lined with bookshelves, complete with a small ladder on rollers to reach the higher shelves. Covering one wall of books were various charts that detailed the OSS Mediterranean Theatre of Operations.
There had been no desk, and Fine had had one fashioned out of a solid door—complete with hinges and knob still attached—placed across a pair of makeshift sawhorses. His office chair had come from the kitchen, which was just down the hall, past the two dining areas. The room also had a view of the harbor beyond the French doors that opened onto a small balcony.
OSS Algiers HQ had a permanent staff of about twenty. Most wore, as did Fine, the U.S. Army tropical worsted uniform, with or without insignia depending on their current duties. Another group of twenty was transient, working mostly with the training of agents, and wore anything except military-issued items as they came and went on irregular schedules.
They all shared the folding wooden-framed cots that filled three of the four bedrooms on the villa’s top floor. The fourth bedroom—a windowless interior space—had been turned into the communications room. Its wooden door was steel-reinforced, with a wooden beam and brackets on the inside added as security. Tables held wireless two-way radios and Teletypes and typewriters. There was a nearly constant dull din of the operators sending and receiving the W/T traffic—the tapping out of Morse code and the clacking of their typing the decrypted messages. An armed guard was posted in the hall.
Next level down, the third-floor bedrooms had been made into basic offices for more of the permanent staffers. They held mismatched chairs with makeshift desks and rows of battered filing cabinets.
And the very bottom floor—a huge space, complete with a formal ballroom that prior to the war had been used for entertaining—was a warehouse. The storage area held stacks of crates and heavy wooden shelving. There were the usual office supplies—typewriters, boxes of paper and ribbons, et cetera—and the not so usual office supplies.
Safes contained hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold and silver coins. Rows of wooden racks held a small armory—weaponry of American, British, and German manufacture—as well as stores of ammunition. Other crates contained Composition C-2 plastic explosive and fuses. Clothing racks were lined with a variety of enemy uniforms collected from prisoners of war taken in the North African campaigns. And, stacked in one corner, were cases of Haig & Haig Gold Label scotch.
“What bad news?” Dick Canidy said, looking down at his feet as Stan Fine hung up the telephone that was a secure line to General Eisenhower’s AFHQ office at the Hotel Saint George.
Canidy plucked a crisp paper bill that was stuck to his chukka boot. He briefly examined its front and back, then let it flutter back to his feet.
The floor was nearly ankle deep in paper currency. The notes had not been printed by the United States Bureau of Engraving but, instead, by counterfeiters whom OSS Washington had arranged to be released from federal prison into OSS custody. The idea of convicted felons not only free to continue counterfeiting but being encouraged to do so had thrilled absolutely no one at the Treasury Department and had caused FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover to formally protest to the President. But once again Wild Bill Donovan prevailed.
Now more than the equivalent of a million U.S. dollars’ worth of bogus 100 Deutsche reichsmark notes covered Fine’s office floor. Another million in a mix of French francs and Italian lire filled the floor of the commo room. It was obvious that fresh-off-the-press notes would not pass muster in the field and Fine had decided that the way to more or less gently “age” them was to walk on them.
“That was Owen on the horn,” Fine said.
He saw Canidy make a face at the mention of General Eisenhower’s pompous aide, Lieutenant Colonel J. Warren Owen. A chair warmer whose sole job seemed to be keeping Eisenhower’s schedule—and keeping Ike to that schedule, which could be a formidable task—Owen had a very high opinion of himself. It wasn’t necessarily deserved, many beli
eved, especially when he arrogantly would, as a way to quickly establish his bona fides, reference anything that allowed him to boast of being a graduate of Hah-vard.
Fine remembered Canidy declaring: “When I was at MIT, I had a helluva lot of bright buddies in Cambridge. How that dimwit Owen got into Harvard, let alone got through it, I’ll never know.”
Making matters worse, for whatever reason—“It’s because he’s not bright enough to understand unconventional warfare and the risks required,” Canidy further declared—Owen liked nothing more than to say no to damn near anything that the OSS requested.
Fine went on: “Owen said that Ike—he actually said it in that condescending tone he uses, ‘Per our Supreme Commander’s direct order’—the Casabianca was the last submarine they’re letting us use ‘until further notice.’ I won’t bore you with all his other reprimands.”
Canidy was not only familiar with the Free French Forces submarine Casabianca, he considered himself friends with her thirty-five-year-old captain. Commander Jean L’Herminier had extricated Canidy from Sicily on March 25 and then eleven days later put Canidy back in—this second time with Frank Nola and Jim “Tubes” Fuller—before pulling Canidy out alone.
“The last?” Canidy repeated. “Damn it!”
Fine nodded. “And he added that that had been allowed only because the sub is headed back to Corsica. Ike was genuinely impressed with the intel that Pearl Harbor has provided, and now that the station has gone off the air again—it’s having troubles with its SSRT transmitting—he said he feels obligated to let us check on it. We’re sending in a replacement radio and other supplies. More importantly, we want to make physical contact to ensure the station isn’t blown.”
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 12
