He pulled his .45 out as he entered, then pushed the door shut behind him.
Just as the last time he’d been there, Canidy found the same pair of desks pushed together back-to-back in the middle of the room, a wooden office chair at each, both piled high with papers. A row of battered wooden filing cabinets stood against the near wall. And random clutter—boxes of half-eaten German rations, broken wine bottles, overflowing cans of trash—was everywhere.
He then heard the sound of a deep snore. It had come from the next room, which Canidy remembered being a smaller office. He carefully pushed open its door, looked around the room, then slipped inside.
The room held a single desk with a wooden chair behind it. Against the far wall was a couch with a massive human form on top.
Ah, one of the Brothers Buda.
Canidy approached and could see that he was lying on his back, with one hand holding a wine bottle by the neck to his chest. He had pulled down his coppola just enough so that the traditional Sicilian tweed flat cap covered his eyes.
Canidy knocked the coppola to the ground.
Okay, which one are you?
I think Tweedle Dumb . . .
He aimed his .45 at the puffy chest, then sharply nudged him in the ribs with his knee.
The fat man snorted loudly, then cracked open his right eye. Both eyes then popped wide open. They were bloodshot.
No, maybe it’s Tweedle Dee.
“Remember me?” Canidy said, and smiled.
VIII
[ONE]
Chemische Fabrik
Frankfurt, Germany
1445 31 May 1943
In addition to his luxurious office that filled the entire top floor of the Berlin headquarters of Kappler Industrie GmbH, Wolfgang Augustus Kappler, as befitting a company’s chief officer, kept a private office at each of his subsidiary companies. None, however, was as well appointed as that in his headquarters building. They were purposefully Spartan by design, meant to give the visiting chief executive a highly efficient space from which to conduct what more times than not could be a brutally cold business. Kappler believed that a chief executive of a multinational corporation belittled certainly himself, if not his subordinates, by working out of a common area such as a conference room.
As Wolfgang Kappler entered what he still considered to be his personal office, despite Chemische Fabrik having recently been nationalized, he thought, Battles are always best fought on home turf. And I have many, many battles yet to fight. . . .
Early that morning, Kappler, traveling on papers of highest priority issued by the Office of the Reichs Leader and signed by Reichsleiter Martin Bormann himself, had secured at the last moment a very small but private compartment on the first Frankurt-bound train out of Bern. Watching the springtime beauty of the Switzerland countryside go past had allowed him to consider without interruption all that he very well might have to do in short order. Then, at the German border, having that quiet time turned upside down by the arrogance of a Gestapo officer as he scrutinized Kappler’s documents only served to put a point on it.
After finally arriving at the dreary Frankfurt Main Hauptbahnhof, he then came directly to his Chemische Fabrik office.
He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray woolen suit with an almost crisp white dress shirt, and matching burgundy necktie and pocket square. He had just put his black leather briefcase on the massive wooden desk when a plump fifty-five-year-old woman appeared at his office door. She had a very round face and wore her thin graying hair braided and rolled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She had on, over a basic white linen long-sleeved blouse, a plain brown woolen jumper dress, its hem falling almost to her leather flats.
Kappler knew that Bruna Baur was, like him, a devout Roman Catholic and, quite possibly, also an anti-Nazi. Especially after her only son, Otto Baur, fighting in vain with the Sixth Army at Stalingrad, had been killed in January. Bruna at first appearance seemed very simple. But Kappler knew that she was much brighter than most gave her credit for. She long had worked for him through Klaus Schwartz, and with Schwartz’s departure she had more or less begun working directly for him.
“As you asked, I have Frau Kappler on the line for you,” she announced. “I have placed a call to Herr Krupp’s Berlin office. And Herr Höss said he is on his way.”
“Danke, Bruna,” he said, taking his seat behind the desk.
“Herr Kappler?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“It is good to have you back,” she said in a genuine tone that showed she appreciated the gracious gentleman that he was.
He smiled.
“Danke,” he repeated, then he lied: “It is good to be back.”
As Wolfgang Kappler picked up the telephone receiver, he looked at it and thought, I do not know for certain if the line is being listened to by the SS, but Allen Dulles told me that I must assume everything I do is—“You cannot afford to take any chances whatever from this point forward.”
And on the assumption that my conversations are being listened to, I believe I will mention whatever I can think of that will confuse whoever is out there listening.
Kappler was tired, but made himself use a chipper tone as he spoke into the telephone. “My darling! How good it is to hear your voice. How are you and Anna? . . .
“That is wonderful, dear. And, yes, I know it has been two weeks since we have talked. . . .
“I understand. But I was out of the country on business—actually in Portugual first, and just now back from Bern—and simply unable to call. But that is why I call you now. . . .
“No, I have had no communication with Oskar in many weeks. I’m sure he’s all right, my dear, and busy with the war effort. We would have heard otherwise were that not the case. . . .
“Yes, of course, I cannot wait to see Anna and you, too, my love. I need to be at my Berlin office, and will probably be up there in a day or so. Please be sure not to go anywhere until we can see each other. . . .
“Yes, to you, too. Good-bye.”
Thank God I kept that short, before she had a chance to possibly mention the Ruhr bombings.
I wonder if she is even aware of that? If not, that is why I want to be the one to tell her, as well as what I’ve told Oskar. . . .
He hung up the receiver, then stood and went to the large plate glass window. It had a reflective film on the inside that allowed for anyone in the office to look out but did not allow anyone on the manufacturing floor to see what or who was behind the window.
As he looked out over the factory floor, he heard behind him a light rap at his door and then a familiar voice.
“Herr Kappler?” Walter Höss said, his uneven tone betraying his nervousness.
Kappler turned. “Walter. Please come in. How are you?”
Höss walked to the desk. He was a small-framed, frail-looking thirty-five-year-old who in his neat but bland two-piece suit and tie looked like the overly organized accountant he had been before Kappler had promoted him. Kappler towered over him, and it was obvious that he was made uneasy by Kappler’s intense green eyes that were surveying him hawk-like.
“I am fine, Herr Kappler. We, uh, we were not given word to expect you.”
We? The royal “we”?
Has your new temporary chief officer title gone to your head?
“Did my Berlin office not call ahead?” Kappler said. “There were instructions to do so.”
Actually, I did not make that call on purpose, Walter.
Surprise visits from the boss can be quite useful for a number of reasons.
“No, there was no word.”
“So you said.”
Höss stared back awkwardly.
“Well, that’s quite all right,” Kappler said. “No harm done. I am here now.”
“A lot has happened since your last visit—it’s been at least a month—right before Sturmbannführer Schwartz’s going-away party.”
Kappler felt his skin crawl with Höss’s use of the SS rank.
That’s how indoctrinated that bastard Schwartz made everyone with that ridiculous SS costume.
Kappler forced a smile.
“I do well remember, Walter. And right after Herr Schwartz’s party, I had you assume the duties of my assistant until we found Schwartz’s replacement.”
“Yes, sir, but I am not sure—” He paused, trying to find the right words, then hesitantly went on: “I’m not sure you’re permitted to be here.”
Kappler’s eyebrows rose and his chest expanded.
“What the hell do you mean?” Kappler flared. “I have run this company almost as long as you are old!”
“But . . . but, Herr Kappler.”
“I put you in your job. I can replace you, too.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But you must have heard—”
“There is no but!” He pointed toward the door. “Get out of my office.”
Höss looked as if he might soil his shorts as he stammered, “You do understand that I will have to make inquiries.”
“Make all the damn inquiries you wish! I would suggest beginning with Reichsleiter Bormann himself!”
He went to his desk and opened the leather-bound address book there.
“Here,” Kappler went on, picking up the telephone receiver, “I will personally place the call to Marty for you.”
Kappler saw in the accountant’s face that the absolute last person he wanted to speak to—and very likely incur the wrath of—was Hitler’s personal secretary.
Kappler stood there for a long moment looking at Höss, then at the phone.
He appears to be terrified. Good.
I have won this battle . . . though with a bean counter it is not much of one.
This is someone who actually looks forward to long, dull hours of dealing with columns and numbers. He is unable to think beyond the obvious. And so ten seconds of human confrontation turns him to mush.
Now, I will give him a way to save face.
Kappler sighed audibly.
“Forgive me, Walter,” he said evenly. “You must understand that, having lost to the bombing all of my Ruhr Valley operations—all seven were washed away in the flooding—I am under a great deal of stress.”
Höss nodded.
“I heard. And I do understand, Herr Kappler—at least as much as I believe I am able. And I’m sorry. It is a great loss, for you and for the Fatherland. That must be disturbing.”
I wonder exactly how much he knows.
He knows that this company has been nationalized—but what about others?
And as far as I know, I didn’t lose all seven. Only five. Does he know otherwise?
Höss gestured at the telephone.
“That will not be necessary, Herr Kappler. Please accept my apology.”
Kappler returned the receiver to its cradle.
Höss suddenly looked relieved.
After a long moment, he asked, “Is there anything that I can do for you, Herr Kappler?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, Reichsleiter Bormann has asked for a report on our current operations. If you wish to be useful, I will need the last month’s production reports. All of them. As well as projections for the next six weeks—no, the next six months.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, turning to leave. “Right away.”
“But start with the next six weeks,” Kappler called after him. “I do not wish to wait forever. I have other business to tend to, as usual.”
* * *
An hour later, Wolfgang Kappler was flipping through a thick sheaf of reports that, in true Teutonic fashion, detailed literally down to nuts and bolts the last two months of production at the facility. As he scanned the pages, he ran his fingers through his short dark hair, then rubbed his temples.
Walter, despite his faults, has always been good about going the next step. Ask for six weeks, he gives you eight.
I’m sure that that has served him well with trying to please the gottverdammt Gestapo.
“This is a good start,” Kappler said.
“These production papers, and plans for the next year, Herr Schwartz left in his office,” Walter Höss said. “You are aware of them, yes? And that he still maintains an office here? A small one, to keep an eye on production.”
Am I aware?
Not of one damn word!
That bastard!
Kappler nodded. “Of course. Schwartz worked quite closely for me, as you know. When was he last here?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Have you heard from him since?”
“No, sir. His next scheduled visit is not for another month.”
Kappler nodded.
“I would have been happy to send these to your Berlin office,” Höss said in what he hoped was a helpful tone, “and saved you the trip here.”
Kappler did not reply to that. Instead, he stood and went to the plate glass window.
Chemische Fabrik Frankfurt consisted of two massive, fully enclosed manufacturing facilities. This part of the chemical manufacturing plant covered two full city blocks. The second, which was across the street, covered three.
Here, as far as the eye could see under the vast metal roof, stood shiny rows of twenty-foot-tall stainless steel cylinders that were connected by a labyrinth of heavy industrial-grade piping. On opposite sides of the building were railroad spurs. The spur to the left had flatcars stacked with crates that were being off-loaded by men in black-and-white-striped outfits under the watch of guards.
Those pitiful sklavenarbeiter . . . I don’t know that I’ll be able to save any others now.
None of us will survive unless I am successful.
On the right side, there was a conveyor belt that led to the other rail spur, where more sklavenarbeiter, also in black-and-white-striped prison uniforms, and under guard, hand-loaded small metal canisters into boxcars.
“What exactly are we producing today?” Kappler said, hoping to appeal to the accountant’s ego.
Höss motioned at the sheaf of papers he had brought.
“As detailed in there, high explosive,” Höss said, the pride evident in his voice. “One hundred twenty tons every twenty-four hours, which is twenty percent in excess of what has been ordered. As you know, we have not manufactured any nitrogen or phosphate products for agricultural use since last December.”
Kappler gestured at the left rail spur.
“And this is what? Trinitrotoluene coming in from our other plant?”
“That is correct. TNT. It is added in this facility with ammonium nitrate to produce the high explosive Amatol. We have also, as backup in the event that components for the high explosive become rare, been asked to be prepared to gear up for production of the lower-grade explosives Trialen and Myrol.”
“And these are being shipped to where?”
“I don’t think I understand . . .”
“If you are manufacturing the high explosive, you must be shipping it somewhere.”
“Yes, of course. These boxcars are locked and sealed here and then taken to the central Frankfurt railyard, where another locomotive takes them—among others—to their final destination, the assembly point. The railcars all look more or less alike, and there are at least twenty departures a day from the central railyard—so who knows which train carries what and to where? You can see why your question at first confused me.”
He went over to the sheaf of papers and flipped through but could not immediately put his finger on what he was looking for, and clearly was embarrassed. He flipped through a second time.
“Aha,” he said, removing the sheet. “And this is the Special Program order from Berlin, under the signature of Field Marshal Milch and General von Axthelm but also with that of Reich Minister Göring.”
He held it out, and Kappler waved it away. Höss looked a little dejected as he put it back in the stack.
“I’ll get to it eventually. Tell me its key points.”
Trust me, Walter, I will read it very carefully when you hav
e left.
Höss went on: “It states that the Luftwaffe requires an additional one hundred tons of high explosive each month. That is to be brought up to five thousand tons monthly by this time next May.”
That’s for just one program?
“Luckily,” Höss went on, pointing out to the floor, “we had begun manufacture of the metal casings to contain the high explosive—they are there to the right—before your steelworks were lost in the Ruhr bombings.”
He paused and looked at Kappler.
“A terrible, unfortunate act,” he added.
“Yes.”
“We were not so fortunate with getting the casings made there for the T-83 material. The Tabun?”
Höss looked at Kappler, who nodded that he was aware of the code name.
“But as we have yet to bring the plant on line for the manufacture of the T-83, we have time to make them at another source. As one might expect of the brilliant Herr von Braun, the requirements are quite exact—with slight modification they are essentially the same as those for the high explosive—and I have full confidence that we will not only meet the production numbers but exceed them. And because the order for T-83 is a fraction of that of the high explosive, we accordingly need only to manufacture a fraction of the metal casings.”
So the plant is being converted to make Tabun.
And for what? What is this Luftwaffe Special Program?
“How much T-83?”
“Not quite half.”
Fifty, sixty tons of nerve gas each month? That is ten times what was used for the howitzer munitions!
This is insanity!
What the hell is this Special Program?
There must be a way to knock out the plant during the transition without there being suspicion of sabotage. . . .
Höss gestured again at the papers he had brought.
“The requirements are detailed in the order, of course,” he added.
Of course they are!
We wouldn’t expect less of “the brilliant Herr von Braun,” would we?
Kappler nodded his understanding.
Okay, Walter, now you can get the hell out of my office.
They were quiet a long moment, then Höss said, “Very well. If there is nothing else you require of me for now.”
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 25
