The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel

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

  Schrader took an odd pleasure in boasting that, having known Kappler so long, “I can read you like an open book, my friend.”

  Kappler did not buy that—and often took offense at what he considered Schrader’s prying into his private life, especially his family’s wealth and privilege—but that did not stop Schrader from trying. Thus, Oskar did not want to be around Juli all damn day, and tomorrow, and very likely the next, constantly having to fend off what he knew would be Schrader’s persistent proclamations as to why Kappler was behaving in such an unusual manner.

  When Kappler had heard Schrader mention checking on Müller and his SS field office operations, he had had to restrain himself from appearing overly eager. Schrader knew Kappler loathed Müller. Thus, Kappler had gone to his office and passed a couple hours—a time frame that seemed much longer—then finally stood in the doorway to Schrader’s office and, in a tone he hoped came across as casual if not bored, announced that he would be leaving to drive to Palmero.

  Schrader had made a harumph sound, and said, “I think not.”

  What the hell? Kappler thought.

  “Otto will drive you,” Schrader had then announced. “That is not open for discussion. That is an order, my friend. I can see that you are mentally distracted over this morning’s meeting with the Abwehr agent and the topic of nerve gas. I do not want to find myself sending out a team for search and rescue because you lost your way and drove off a cliff into the Mediterranean Sea. The trip will give you the opportunity to ensure that Müller continues making proper amends. And a nice three-hour drive and change of scenery will be mentally cleansing.”

  Otto Lieber was Schrader’s newly arrived SS-scharführer bodyguard. He was slight of build, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed blond seventeen-year-old Weisbadener whose peach fuzz cheeks convinced Kappler that he’d yet to have his first shave.

  Schrader glanced at his wristwatch.

  “It is now just after three o’clock,” he said. “Otto should have you arrive around six, in time for Müller to treat you to drinks and a nice dinner.”

  “I’ll be fine driving myself,” Kappler protested.

  Schrader held up his hand, palm out.

  “You’ll be better being driven, my friend. I will send for Otto to bring around my personal vehicle. Nothing but the best for you!”

  Kappler thought, I despise that little car!

  He looked Schrader in the eyes and sighed audibly.

  “Very well, Juli. I surrender. I suppose I should be saying, ‘Thank you.’”

  “Yes, you should.”

  The next thing Kappler knew, the scharführer was pulling up outside the headquarters building in Schrader’s two-year-old Fiat 1500.

  Kappler put his overnight bag in what passed for a backseat and his black leather briefcase on the front floorboard. Then he made a tight-lipped smile at the driver as he squeezed his tall, athletic body into the cramped two-door Italian sports car.

  * * *

  SS-Scharführer Otto Lieber, after the initial twenty minutes of forced small talk about weather and how great the war was going, quickly got the message that SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler had no desire to spend the trip chatting.

  “If you don’t mind, I have a few things to consider before we reach our destination,” Kappler said.

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer! I fully understand,” Lieber said, and turned his attention to the winding coastal two-lane road, running the Fiat up and down its gears.

  There was nothing to see but ocean and the waves pounding the rocky shoreline, and Kappler gazed out at it in deep thought.

  That morning, after shaking hands with Ernst Beck and leaving Café Alessandro, Kappler had reread his father’s letter a half-dozen times, at the very least, and now had it memorized.

  Father always used my full name when I was a child—especially when he was angry as hell. I can hear it now, his voice growling: “Oskar Karl Kappler, you will do as I say or else!”

  And when he was speaking to me about something very serious, he always called me “Karlchen” in a calm, commanding voice to get my full attention.

  Well, he sure as hell has it now.

  I do not think that there is any significance to be found in his sending the love of my mother and sister, other than that simply being a method not to draw attention to the “Karlchen” code so that it can be used again. Especially because he did state that Mother and Anna were unharmed and in Berlin.

  I had wondered what, if anything, had happened to the family businesses in the Ruhr dam bombings. There have been no details of that in any news reports, suggesting that something big did happen and that Berlin is keeping that quiet.

  What has been surprising to me is that the messages I sent Felix asking what he knew about the bombings have gone unanswered. That could mean that he did not get them—which is very doubtful, as he’s never not gotten my messages and not answered them—or that he does not know—doubtful again, considering his position in the SD—or that he has been ordered not to tell me.

  This last one I have come to believe, though if it is correct I do wonder why Felix then didn’t reply that he did not know and was looking into it.

  His not answering any of the messages . . . does that mean something?

  Perhaps not.

  Regardless, what happened to the Ruhr operations would appear to be a trivial point now. Even if all seven were lost to the bombings, it does not matter—not if Hitler has stolen them from us.

  Just as he stole Fritz Thyssen’s.

  And why is the bastard throwing the Thyssens in a concentration camp?

  Is Hitler that paranoid? That revengeful?

  Or is the war, contrary to Otto’s happy talk, that lost?

  Or all the above?

  My father and mother did not do as the Thyssens—give Hitler and his Thousand-Year Reich the finger in front of all their fellow Germans and then leave the country. As far as I know, my father has done all that’s been required of him.

  Yet it is absolutely crystal clear that Father fears that our entire family is in danger.

  He said to take “extraordinary actions to save yourself from a possible similar fate but also ones to save your mother and sister.”

  Then he suddenly thought: Jesus Christ!

  He turned and looked out the side window so that the scharführer would not see his expression.

  Am I being watched?

  Is that why the hell Juli ordered me to take this kid on the trip?

  The bastard’s keeping an eye on me!

  He looked to the floorboard, to where he had put his black leather briefcase. Inside the case, among his official papers, was his Luger and four extra magazines of 9mm. He then glanced at Lieber. The peach-faced Otto stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to anything except the dotted lines on the macadam.

  Using a clueless kid would be a clever way for me not to suspect he’s actually watching me and reporting on what I’m doing.

  And did anyone pay any attention that after I called and left a message for Müller to expect my arrival, I called Beck and told him that I would be out of town overnight in Palermo?

  Oh, hell . . . now I am becoming paranoid!

  “Calm down, Karlchen,” as Father used to tell me. “You must always think thoroughly before acting.”

  This kid’s not capable of babysitting an infant, let alone keeping up with me.

  Still, as Felix said when we were in intelligence school: “Even the paranoid have enemies.”

  He’d laughed, that Felix, but he’d meant it seriously.

  Otto suddenly stood on the brakes and downshifted.

  Kappler jerked his head to look forward. He saw that a herd of forty or more goats blocked the road. A farmer carrying a long wooden staff was trying, and failing, to hurry them across.

  “Sorry,” Otto said, then tapped the horn.

  The honking caused the animals to run in circles and around the car.

  “I’d suggest just ru
nning them over,” Kappler said, “but I don’t think this flimsy little car is much of a match against even those small animals. And we don’t want to be stuck out here.”

  Jesus! Kappler thought. Stuck out here indeed.

  My family’s very existence is at grave risk and I’m stuck in a joke of a vehicle surrounded by a damn herd of crazed goats?

  Otto hit the horn again, impatiently revving the engine.

  This time the farmer prodded at the animals with his staff and after a moment managed to part the herd.

  Otto shot through the gap.

  Okay, think, Oskar. Think!

  Getting back to those “extraordinary actions” . . . what am I supposed to do with Mother and Anna? Do I try to get back to Berlin now? Try to prepare them for whatever happens next?

  No. Father wrote “if something should happen to me, you will need to take your own extraordinary actions.”

  And in that case I would be approached by a powerful man, someone who was involved with the family enterprises that Hitler cannot touch.

  I wonder if Hitler even knows about them?

  I’ve known about them, known they exist—I even remember Father going to Argentina with Thyssen—but never knew details of exactly what we have there in South America and in the United States.

  Father always said that he would tell me “in due time.”

  And—ach du lieber Gott!—what a “due time” it is!

  He shook his head.

  I never thought that those properties would one day “constitute the family’s entire wealth.” It certainly appears to have been a brilliant business strategy, particularly in light of Hitler stealing all we have in Germany.

  Yet Thyssen did the same—and it’s all utterly worthless to him locked up in a konzentrationslager.

  And what the hell will I do if the same happens to Father?

  And what if the bastards decide “like father, like son” and throw me in, too, for good measure?

  Father writing that he prayed the war will soon end, and that we will soon be together as a family—that read like his last words. Ones in vain, especially considering he said those secret, dangerous tasks that God chose “may not end well for me.”

  So, what to do? I’m just supposed to wait? For what? And for how long?

  That Beck said he thought it was “going to get very interesting very quickly.”

  Does he know something?

  Kappler felt his heart race. And he suddenly realized he had no idea how long he’d been holding his breath, and now found himself making rapid, shallow breaths.

  He could hear his father’s voice: “Calm down, Karlchen!”

  I may never hear my father’s voice again. . . .

  He turned to look out his side window when he caught his throat tightening and felt his eyes glistening. He did not want the scharführer to see that.

  “Everything all right, sir?” Otto Lieber said, glancing at him.

  Kappler after a moment cleared his throat, then nodded.

  “Just something in my eye,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  Otto Lieber nodded, then quietly returned his attention to the road.

  [FOUR]

  SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler reached down for his leather briefcase as he looked at the massive white masonry building that served as the SS’s Palermo field office. It had been built in the “four corners” city center—the Quattro Canti Quarter—by the Normans nine centuries earlier. It was four stories high. A dozen stone steps led up to the huge heavy ornate metal door of the main entrance.

  Seeing the field office building brought back memories—none of them good—of the times that Kappler had been forced to come to Palermo.

  I tried to get those Tabun howitzer munitions lost here, so no one could use them. But that bastard Müller found them—and could have killed us all when he decided that he had plans for them.

  As the supervising officer of SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Müller—a high-strung twenty-eight-year-old major who had a violent temper that matched, if not surpassed, that of Adolf Hitler—Kappler was responsible for what Müller did. Or failed to do. And when Kappler wrote up the report detailing Müller’s intended use and then loss of the nerve gas, and in it demanded that the reckless Müller be demoted and reassigned, Julius Schrader had squashed it.

  “I am going to do you a favor, my friend, and tell you that you really do not want this incident to go any further,” Schrader had counseled Kappler as he put the report in his desk drawer. “Remember, someone in Berlin reading this could suggest that blame lay with you for poor training and supervision of Müller. Give him another chance. Just keep a closer eye on him.”

  Or that blame lay with Juli—and so he left the bastard in his job.

  And that left me walking a damn tightrope with the bastard, because Müller knows I do not wield the authority over him that I should.

  “Well,” Kappler said to Otto, “we got here in one piece. I don’t know about you, but first thing I need to do is relieve the pressure on my bladder.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer!” Otto Lieber said, then quickly got out from behind the wheel.

  Kappler watched as Lieber then bolted up the stone steps and went inside the building.

  I guess he has to go worse than I do.

  Kappler squeezed out of the car, swung the car door closed, and casually went up the steps. When he opened the huge metal door, there in the entryway stood Otto Lieber, gesturing to the left, toward a door.

  “I’ve located the gentlemen’s facility, sir,” Lieber said. “It is through this door and to the right.”

  You really are that wet behind the ears, aren’t you, Otto?

  And you’re probably convinced that your service just now is as important to winning the war for the Fatherland as is being on the front lines and actually dodging bullets.

  “Thank you, but I have been here,” he said drily. “If you want to be genuinely useful, see if you can find Sturmbannführer Müller now and let him know I’m here.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer!”

  Five minutes later, Kappler reappeared in the entryway and found Otto standing with a young man in uniform.

  Oh, for Christ’s sake! Another one?

  “Heil Hitler!” the young man barked as he stiffly held out his right arm in a Nazi salute. “Scharführer Günther Burger at your service, sir!”

  SS-Scharführer Günther Burger was almost a mirror image of SS-Scharführer Otto Lieber. Kappler vaguely remembered seeing his name on the field office manning chart, very far down at the bottom.

  Kappler looked at Otto, then back at his twin.

  “I was expecting to see Sturmbannführer Müller,” Kappler said, ignoring the Nazi greeting.

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer! The sturmbannführer has asked me to take you directly to the hotel where you will be staying. With the sturmbannführer’s compliments, sir.”

  Is the bastard blatantly ignoring me?

  “But where the hell is he? I thought it was clear that he was supposed to be expecting me.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer! And he is. At the Hotel Michelangelo. After we get you checked in.”

  Burger then gestured somewhat nervously to the door, and added, “It is right around the corner, Herr Obersturmbannführer. Just two blocks, sir.”

  * * *

  Interesting, Oskar Kappler thought after unpacking his overnight bag and taking a long look out the window of his suite on the top floor of the Hotel Michelango. I don’t know what Müller is up to, but it’s clear he’s trying to make amends with this very nice room.

  The suite had a wide view of the harbor. Kappler saw that there were mostly commercial fishing boats moored there. And at the end of one of the T-shaped piers—newly rebuilt, he knew, to replace the pier that had burned when the cargo ship blew up just after off-loading the Tabun—were a pair of Schnellboots.

  Still, I don’t trust the bastard one bit, he thought as he w
ent into the hall and pulled the door shut.

  Coming down the stairs, Kappler saw that Günther Burger and Otto Lieber were seated on facing couches in the center of the wide tile-floored lobby. They appeared to be conversing with the ease of old friends.

  When Burger noticed Kappler coming down the wide stairs, he popped to his feet. Lieber automatically followed suit.

  Kappler scanned the lobby. He saw that the cocktail lounge was at the front of the hotel, just off the lobby and beyond a wide arched passageway that had two large potted palms on either side. He walked to the scharführers.

  “I have alerted Sturmbannführer Müller that you are here,” Burger said. “He said he is coming right away.”

  “Good,” Kappler said, and looked to the lounge. “I’ll be in there. Otto, you are free until nine tomorrow morning, when I’ll see you right here. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  * * *

  Kappler took a seat at a cocktail table in the far corner with a view of the lobby through the arched passageway. The lounge was empty except for two older men drinking at the wooden bar. When they glanced at Kappler as he entered, he thought they looked intelligent and educated—if not exactly thrilled to see an SS uniform—and guessed they might be university professors.

  The bartender—a short, fat Sicilian whose coarse skin and hard features made Kappler think he would be better suited as, say, a fishmonger—waddled across the room to him.

  When it immediately became clear that the bartender did not speak German or English, Kappler pointed to a wall where a wine advertisement had been tacked up as decoration. It had a sketch of a bottle of red wine.

  Kappler pointed to it, said, “Bottiglia rosso,” then used his index finger to indicate “one.”

  The bartender grunted, left, and shortly thereafter waddled back to him carrying a heavy, tall water glass and a bottle of red wine.

  As Kappler watched the bartender struggle with the corkscrew in his sausage-shaped fingers, he became more convinced the man wasn’t meant to serve drinks. And when he botched the ritual of offering the cork and then a taste of the wine before completely filling the glass—and the man did indeed fill the glass, right to the lip—Kappler really began to suspect something very strange was happening.