“I’ll let you know, Walter. Thank you.”
Höss went to the door, stopped, and looked over his shoulder.
“Herr Kappler?”
Wolfgang Kappler looked up from the stack of papers, his green eyes staring intently. “Yes?”
“It is good to have you back. It’s been very . . . very unnerving around here lately.”
I don’t believe a damn word you said, except maybe the unnerving part.
“Thank you.”
Höss nodded and left, pulling the door closed after him.
* * *
Kappler quickly went to the stack of papers that Höss had brought. He had flipped through them and found the Special Program order when, a moment later, the door opened and Frau Bruna Baur appeared.
“A moment of your time, Herr Kappler?”
He waved her in, and she closed the door.
“I am not clear what I am to do,” she began.
“About what?”
“I just received a call from someone who said they were calling on behalf of Herr Wernher von Braun.”
“And?”
“They wished to speak to Herr Höss or whoever was now in charge.”
Interesting that they understood the bean counter was serving temporarily until we could replace Schwartz.
“Ordinarily, I would have had Herr Höss take the call. But seeing how you are here now, I thought . . .”
Kappler nodded. “You thought correctly. Any idea what they wanted?”
“No idea. When I asked if there was a message, the reply was simply that the call to Herr von Braun’s office should be returned as soon as possible.”
What could that be about?
Maybe Schwartz is changing his scheduled visit here? Or did he get himself in some hot water?
“Very well. See if you can get them back on the phone. Also, any word from Krupp?”
“Yes, sir. As I said earlier, I called Herr Krupp’s office and left your message. When the call was returned just now, by his assistant, she said that Herr Krupp appreciated your condolences for what happened to his people in the Ruhr bombings, that he offered the same to you for your losses, and that he would be pleased to meet with you the next time you are in Berlin.”
“Very good.”
“It is quite difficult to imagine what has happened in the Ruhr,” she then said.
It is damn difficult even when you’ve seen the photographs. . . .
Kappler noticed that she held her hands together nervously. Then he saw that she held a very tightly folded sheet of paper.
“Have you seen this?” she said somewhat hesitantly, fumbling as she unfolded the sheet.
He looked at the paper she held out. It appeared to be some kind of mass-produced flyer.
“These began showing up here two days ago,” she said. “I found this one on the floor of the ladies’ toilets.”
Kappler took the sheet and read it.
These must be what Allen Dulles said were going to be air-dropped.
“Is there any truth to what it says?” she said. “Are the Americans making those kind of advances?”
He looked up at her and said, “You do realize the grave danger of possessing something like this should the Gestapo find it? Or even Höss?”
She nodded. “And that would suggest that it’s true. If it were lies, they would not care that we have it.”
Kappler looked at her a long moment.
It is evident in her eyes. She does indeed still mourn the loss of her son.
As would I if something were to happen to Oskar.
Kappler nodded and said, “From what I understand, yes. They actually were British bombers. Thousands died when the floodwater escaped the dams. There is limited water. And without the dams’ hydroelectric plant, there is no power for what homes and industries do remain.”
“They said something like this could never happen, that it was impossible.”
“Yes, they did.”
“Just as they said we would not fail at Leningrad,” she added bitterly.
Kappler made a face that he hoped looked sympathetic.
How many mothers must feel as she does?
“All lies this Hitler tells,” she then said. “If the impossible has happened, then it could happen again. And that means the bombings . . .”
He nodded. “They could mean the beginning of the end.”
Which very well could explain the desperate production rate of high explosive and nerve gas for this Special Program. . . .
[TWO]
Palermo, Sicily
0820 31 May 1943
“Ciao, Antonio,” Dick Canidy said, aiming his pistol at the two-hundred-pound five-foot-five Sicilan lying on his back on the grimy couch. Antonio Buda’s olive skin was coarse from a lifetime of wind and sea and sun exposure. He wore dirty denim overalls that fit tightly, bulging at his rolls of belly fat.
Wide-eyed, Antonio immediately let loose of the wine bottle neck as he held up his hands chest-high, palms out. The empty bottle clunked on the raw stone floor.
“Sit up,” Canidy said, taking a step back and gesturing with the pistol.
Antonio swung his feet to the floor, then keeping his left hand up at chest level, used his right hand to push his massive body to the sitting position.
As he brought his right hand back up, he leaned slightly forward—and experienced an intense episode of flatulence. It went on deeply and loudly before finally ending.
Jesus Christ, Tweedle Dee! That was special.
But I guess that’s to be expected of one so damn big.
What goes in . . .
Then Antonio leaned back—and there came a second episode, one lasting nearly as long.
Is he going to shit his shorts next?
What was that—from the wine?
Or from being nervous because he’s looking down the muzzle of a .45?
Antonio then grimaced and made a shrug that could have been meant as an apology.
Canidy sighed. After a moment he reached inside his jacket.
He came out with the envelope containing Charley Lucky’s handkerchief and letters of introduction. He gave Antonio the letter that was written in Sicilian.
Keeping his left hand high, Antonio took the letter in his right, read it, looked Canidy in the eyes, and nodded, then handed it back.
Canidy, after returning the envelope to his pocket, then carefully put his left thumb and index finger on either side of the hammer of his .45, squeezed the trigger, and gently decocked the weapon.
Then he motioned for Antonio to put down his hands.
When Antonio had, Canidy made a thumbs-up gesture, and as he did so, a wave of relief flowed over Antonio’s face. He responded with a thumbs-up, and added a weak smile.
“Where is Francisco Nola?” Canidy said, remembering that the Brothers Buda understood a little English—very little.
“Francisco?” Tweedle Dee said, turning his head and seeming to somewhat understand.
Is Tweedle Dee now playing Tweedle Dumb?
“Francisco,” Canidy repeated. “Where is he?”
Antonio shook his head and shrugged.
Oh, this is just fucking great. Conversing with Nola—who also has a room temperature IQ—was never exactly stimulating.
Is he saying he doesn’t know where, or doesn’t understand what I’m asking?
Now what do I do?
Oh, what the hell. It’s worth a try. . . .
Using his left hand, Canidy then pointed at Antonio, then pointed at his own eyes, then said, “Francisco?”
Antonio stared blankly back with his bloodshot eyes.
Canidy shook his head.
Where is Marcel Marceau when you need the sonofabitch?
Canidy thought he then noticed a flicker of recognition in Antonio’s eyes.
He knows?
And then Antonio leaned forward and had a short episode of flatulence.
Antonio shrugged and shook his head.
; “No Francisco,” he said.
Canidy exhaled audibly.
“No Francisco?” Canidy repeated.
Antonio shook his head again.
Canidy then once more pointed at Antonio, then at his own eyes, then said, “Tubes?”
Antonio shook his head.
Damn it! But at least he didn’t let rip with another window-rattling fart. . . .
Canidy repeated the miming and said, “Andrea?”
Antonio’s face seemed to turn sad at the mention of his sister. Then he shook his head.
All three of them? He hasn’t seen a single one? Not even his sister?
What could that mean? Certainly nothing good . . .
And now where the hell do I look?
Maybe check the port and Nola’s warehouse? Could ask Antonio if there’s more T-83—what he calls “buh-lets.” That has to happen at some point.
But then what? I guess just go back and see if John Craig has raised Tubes or whoever on Mercury Station, then try to track the signal.
Wait . . . the hooker!
John Craig said that Tubes wrote him about a whorehouse. Tubes didn’t find that on his own. Nola had to show him. And if Nola knows where it is, so should his cousin.
Canidy then pointed again at Antonio, then at his own eyes . . . then paused.
Okay, how the hell do I mime “whorehouse” without looking like a fool?
In point of fact, how the hell do I mime anything without looking like a fucking fool?
He looked back at Antonio, who appeared to be waiting somewhat anxiously for his next clue.
Wait . . . that’s it!
He then slipped the .45 inside his waistband at the small of his back.
Canidy then smiled and started over.
He pointed at Antonio, then at his own eyes, then with his right hand, he made a circle with the index finger and thumb and then poked his left index finger in and out of the circle.
“Sí?” he said, and repeated the poking motion.
Antonio’s eyes grew huge and his body seemed to quiver.
Antonio then very loudly and very angrily said, “Andrea?”
Oh, shit!
Then, hands and arms flying, he let loose with a rapid-fire barrage of what Canidy decided were probably very colorful Sicilian longshoreman expletives.
“No, no, no!” Canidy quickly said, holding his hands palm out and shaking his head.
Antonio stopped his verbal salvo and stared intently at Canidy.
Now what the hell do I do?
What would— Oh yeah!
Canidy then held out his right hand toward Antonio, then repeatedly rubbed the tip of his thumb across the tips of all his fingers. Then he again made a circle with the index finger and thumb, then poked his left index finger in and out of it.
Antonio looked at Canidy’s hands, then met his eyes.
Canidy saw that there now was a conspiratorial gleam to Antonio’s eyes—It’s damn near a leer—as he chuckled a knowing Heh-heh.
“Sí!” Antonio finally said slowly, smiling broadly.
He started to stand. The process of getting to his feet took a moment, and when he was finally up, he was not steady.
Canidy feared that the movement was going to trigger another episode of flatulence. It did not come to pass.
* * *
Antonio Buda led Dick Canidy—unsteadily at first, with only two comparatively brief episodes of flatulence—almost twenty blocks to Palermo’s four corners city center. There they turned down an alley, and finally took some stone steps that led below street level.
We’re entering a whorehouse through a secret entrance?
No, it looks like a service entrance.
There was a heavy steel door that had at eye level a smaller door behind metal bars. With his sausage-shaped knuckles, Tweedle Dee rapped out a series of three knocks three times. There was no answer, and after a minute, he sighed, then repeated the code, this time knocking harder and louder.
There was no answer still, and Antonio looked at Canidy and shrugged. They waited another minute, then an impatient Canidy hammered the code out with his fist.
The smaller door suddenly flung open, and the left side of what looked like a young woman’s smooth-skinned face immediately filled it. Her big brown eye curiously darted between Canidy and Buda—then the face and eye were yanked out of the way.
That was a really good-looking woman, Canidy thought.
A pockmarked acne-skinned face with a hard-looking dark eye immediately replaced the first. The eye also darted between them, this one looking less with curiosity than it did with great suspicion.
Judging by how the face was turned to look up and out, Canidy guessed it was that of a boy.
He must be standing on his tiptoes.
And his haircut is about as bad as the Budas’ bowl cuts.
The boy’s face then quickly pulled back, and the small door slammed shut. There then came the sound of locks being turned, and the door was opened slightly. A small male arm then appeared in the opening, impatiently waving them to come in. Tweedle Dee had to push open the door more in order to fit though the gap. When Canidy had followed, the door was slammed shut and it was immediately locked by the boy. The woman was nowhere to be seen.
Canidy was surprised to see that the boy had a stub of a cigarette now dangling from his lips—and then realized that the boy wasn’t a boy.
It’s a fucking midget!
The adult male stood four-foot-four. He wore the pants and vest of a dark gray woolen suit, and a wrinkled white open-collared cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up past his elbows.
And he’s armed!
Canidy could see that inside the man’s waistband, somewhat hidden by the vest and his suspenders, he carried a small-frame semiautomatic pistol. It was familiar to Canidy. The black Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless, chambered in .380 ACP, was standard issue as general officers’ pistols—and for officers in the OSS.
Should I be suspicious of where the hell Shorty got that Colt?
Hell, if he’s Mafia, then he probably stole it.
But where would he get one here?
The midget then took a last long drag on the cigarette, tossed it to the stone floor, and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe as he exhaled.
See, John Craig? Canidy thought, suppressing a chuckle. Here’s proof those damn things will stunt your growth.
And they apparently cause craters of zits. . . .
Canidy discreetly scanned the room and saw that they were in some sort of a storage room. The wooden shelving along the right wall was stuffed with stacks of folded linens. Against the far wall were cases of canned food and wine in stacks five to six feet high.
Antonio Buda bent over to exchange pats on the back with the midget. Then they had a brief conversation, one with a great deal of gesticulating. The only thing Canidy understood for sure was the mentioning of Francisco Nola. The man constantly glanced at Canidy as Antonio spoke.
I wonder, since he’s carrying that Colt, why he didn’t see if I’ve got a gun.
Maybe Antonio’s telling him now. . . .
Then Antonio pointed at Canidy’s coat.
Shit, he is!
But then Canidy realized he was pointing to where Canidy had put the envelope. Canidy produced the letter of introduction that was written in Sicilian.
Here you go, Shorty.
He watched the man read it, raise his eyebrows, and nodded. The midget then looked up and studied Canidy for a long moment. He said something to him in Sicilian. Canidy was about to gesture he didn’t understand when Antonio said what Canidy guessed was exactly that—he didn’t speak Sicilian.
Then the man grunted and marched out of the room with the letter.
Now what?
I don’t want that damn thing disappearing!
Canidy looked at Antonio, who shrugged but then put out his hands as if he were a priest blessing his congregation, the gesture suggesting It’ll be okay.
&
nbsp; Canidy raised an eyebrow and made a face.
It damn well better be.
Glancing around the storage room, Canidy saw nothing unusual among the shelves—until he came to two medium-sized cardboard boxes. One was labeled bluntly in black block lettering, the other in a flowing red typeface that was below a red cartoon drawing.
The black was in German. It read: LATEX FORSCHUNGSGEMEINSCHAFT KONDOME.
The red was in Italian—PER AMORE—and the drawing was that of Cupid putting what looked like a balloon on his blunt-tipped arrow.
Aha! Occupational necessity . . . condoms.
And guess which one’s stick-up-their-ass Kraut-made and which one’s Italian.
Five minutes later, the midget appeared at the door to the storage room and exchanged a few words with Antonio. He then looked at Canidy and motioned for him to follow him.
Canidy looked at Antonio and raised an eyebrow.
Antonio started with miming. He pointed to Canidy and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he pointed at himself, held his palms together at the side of his head, indicating sleep, then pointed in the direction of the import-export office.
Okay, so he’s going back to the couch to sleep—and probably to fart. No surprise.
Canidy gave him a thumbs-up that he understood.
Then Antonio made the knowing leer again. He formed the circle with thumb and index finger and poked at it. He grinned and gave Canidy a thumbs-up.
What the hell? I’m not here to get laid.
He’d better not have given Shorty the wrong idea. . . .
The midget caught the exchange. He grunted.
“Prego!” the man said, gesturing impatiently for Canidy to follow.
[THREE]
Schutzstaffel Field Office
Palermo, Sicily
0905 31 May 1943
SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler grinned inwardly watching the visibly hungover SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Müller desperately fumble as he closed the blinds of the window to his office. It had rained most of the night, and the morning light was especially bright, causing Müller to shield his eyes as he did so.
The office was very nicely furnished. There were fine oil paintings, thick rugs, and heavy ornate furniture. Müller clearly had helped himself to whatever he wanted in Palermo. Seeing that made Kappler remember the story his father had told about Göring’s “sweetest dream of looting and looting completely”—and that that criminal mentality, especially at the highest levels, had been what motivated him to diversify the family assets in other countries.
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 26
