Ten minutes and five blocks later, they came to another residential street and then to another house. As Andrea pulled a key from her pocket, she pointed to the door and then to herself and said, “My casa.”
They entered, and Canidy saw that it was more or less similar to Mariano’s—with one main exception. It was not destroyed. It was furnished simply and very neatly kept.
They stood in the kitchen, which had a basic wooden table with four wooden stools. Andrea went to one of the lower cabinet doors and took from it a small black bag that she then put on the table. She dug into it and produced a roll of tape.
It’s her medical bag.
She held it up to Canidy, then pointed in the direction of Mariano’s house, then motioned from it to the tape roll.
“You want to bring Apollo here?” Canidy said.
She looked at him not completely comprehending, then repeated the gestures.
He nodded. But it will have to be after dark.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Andrea was again kneeling at John Craig’s feet, her medical bag nearby. He was lying on his torn mattress. She had moments earlier just come out of the small bathroom carrying a large bowl of water. She carefully put the hurt foot in the water, then soaped a sponge and began slowly cleansing it.
From John Craig’s expression, Canidy thought he looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.
“You going to be all right for a while, Gimpy?” Canidy said to him. “I need to go talk to Palasota about my new priority.”
John Craig’s mop of hair nodded as he gave Canidy a thumbs-up.
* * *
When Dick Canidy returned two hours later, he was still annoyed that going back to see Jimmy Skinny basically had been a wild-goose chase.
He’s gone God Knows Where, and when I finally repeat “Vito” often enough that they get the goddamn midget to show up at the front desk, the sawed-off wiseguy hands me a note from Palasota with a hotel room key—after I specifically said that I did not want to stay there.
What a clusterfuck this is becoming!
Canidy again entered the house calling out, “Apollo!”
And again there was no answer.
And again he pulled out his .45 and went up the stairs, approaching the top cautiously.
“Sonofabitch!” he said as he quickly looked around the room.
There was no sign of John Craig van der Ploeg or Andrea Buda. The room held only the shredded mattresses and the makeshift table.
And the wireless is gone! What the hell?
He looked under the hidden door in the floor and found only empty space between the joists.
Damn it!
Canidy then pounded down the stairs and checked the rest of the house.
As he went to the living room at the back of the first floor, he realized something had changed.
Fucking Mariano is gone!
How did that happen?
I could barely move him. No way that John Craig or Andrea could have.
* * *
Canidy covered the five blocks back to the casa that Andrea had announced was hers. He knocked at the door, and when there was no answer, jimmied the lock, searched the house—but found absolutely no trace that they had been there.
* * *
When Canidy reached the single-story brick building that was Frank Nola’s import-export office, the metal hasp on the wooden door was not only closed but had a heavy dull brass padlock securing it.
What the hell?
Tweedle Dee said he was coming back here.
Canidy looked around, then exhaled audibly.
I need to get my bearings and think this whole damn thing through.
And fast. I’m supposed to be—somehow—on my way to Messina. . . .
He reached in his pocket and pulled out the note and key from Jimmy Skinny.
Palasota had written: Sorry. Best I can do right now. Get cleaned up, rested. Check back. –J
[THREE]
Office of Chief Executive
Headquarters, Kappler Industrie GmbH
Berlin, Germany
1015 1 June 1943
“I have just come from the Reich Chancellery,” Wernher von Braun announced in a tone that was anything but pleasant as he came through the massive double oak doors held open by Wolfgang Kappler’s executive assistant. Inge Gelb was an unassuming, slender blond forty-year-old.
Kappler, seated at his desk, slid shut the top drawer that contained his Luger 9mm pistol, and stood. He noted that von Braun, in his SS uniform, had dispensed with greeting him with a stiff arm and a hearty “Heil Hitler.”
“And it’s nice to see you again, too, Wernher,” Wolfgang Kappler said, purposefully sarcastic as he gestured for the assistant to close the door and told her, “Inge, absolutely no interruptions, unless it is Herr Krupp calling.”
Kappler noticed that von Braun seemed unbothered by the mention of Krupp and the possibility of Krupp’s call interrupting their meeting.
“Jawohl, Herr Kappler,” she said, almost bowing as she backed out and pulled the two doors shut.
Kappler’s wife had been responsible for the design of his luxurious office. There was a rich mix of dark-stained hardwood paneling and thick burgundy woolen carpeting, as well as grand oil paintings showing four generations of Kapplers. The furnishings were in the baroque style of Louis XIV, the ornately carved pieces projecting, she’d said, the majestic power that reflected that of the chief executive industrialist himself.
Kappler looked over at von Braun, who now stood by the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a bend of the meandering River Spree. He stood erect, hands on his hips, staring out at the gray and dreary day. Kappler, wearing one of his fine suits, could see von Braun’s reflection in the glass.
He looks ridiculous in that SS uniform.
But I suppose he had to wear it to please Hitler—anything not to give him the slightest excuse to anger him.
Then again maybe, like Schwartz, he likes wearing it.
“And how was your visit with Adolf?”
Wernher von Braun turned and walked to the desk and took a seat in one of the leather-upholstered gilded armchairs. Kappler gestured toward the silver tray with the silver coffee service and, after von Braun nodded, poured them both cups.
“Let me begin, Wolfgang, by asking you something. Have you ever had the pleasure of being at the receiving end of one of Hitler’s furious sessions? One in which Der Führer is so angry that his face glows red as a beet, his spittle pelts you in the face, and the climax of his screaming and yelling is when he rips the eyeglasses from his face and throws them across the room?”
Wolfgang Kappler took a sip of coffee as he thought, I’ve always thought it a serious sign of abhorrent behavior that Hitler would even keep a stockpile of extra eyeglasses just so he could throw and break them. That’s calculating. And sadly childlike, if not outright demented.
“No, Wernher, I have not had the pleasure of being in Adolf’s company in many years. And, even when I did—and I was around him quite a bit in those early days—he then was not prone to such dramatics.”
Von Braun raised an eyebrow.
“I would suggest, having just experienced such a session and the memory of it rather fresh, that these fits of temper are not simply drama.”
Kappler watched as von Braun pulled a white linen handkerchief from his tunic and delicately dabbed at his forehead.
Presumably at some of Adolf’s spittle . . .
Von Braun went on: “There is genuine conviction in his behavior because he has a genuine conviction that Germany will be victorious. And, I might add, such conviction is infectious.”
So you not only believe in that, you actively support it.
Kappler nodded, then said, “This I do not doubt. Even when younger, he showed that extraordinary conviction. I suppose that having such focus on one’s goals—and, conversely, a dogged blindness to anything not fitting one’s goals—is in large part how o
ne rises to be in such a powerful position.”
Their eyes met, and Kappler thought he could see von Braun wondering if that was also meant to describe him.
Yes, it was, Wernher.
You may well be brilliant, but you are no better than all the others in Hitler’s circle. Clearly you are feverishly working to further a madman’s failed vision.
A Thousand-Year Reich? It won’t last another thousand days.
Yet you design more bombs—bigger and more deadly bombs—and use my labors, my companies, to ultimately further destroy our people and our country.
Just as has happened in the Ruhr Valley.
How very easy it would be for me right now to kill you.
But what good would that do? The programs would continue, more people would die—including me and, ultimately, my family.
Von Braun said: “After our meeting with Der Führer, Reich Minister Bormann suggested that I come see you. He said that you and he also go back a long time.”
“Yes. We all do, actually. It was Bormann who introduced Fritz Thyssen and me to Adolf. You’re aware, I’m sure, that Bormann named his sons after Adolf, Rudolf Hess, and Heinrich Himmler.”
“I wasn’t.”
“And so they’re all godfathers to their namesakes. And I was there when Adolf served as witness to Bormann’s wedding.”
“You do go back a long time.”
And yet I am the one who supported them only to see them use that power and steal from me.
Von Braun watched as Kappler pulled back his left cuff to look at his wristwatch. Von Braun noticed that it was a very fine gold Patek Philippe.
“Wernher,” Kappler said, somewhat impatiently, “I was happy to make a place in my schedule for you. But having just returned from a two-week trip, I have much to catch up on. Can we get to the point of this? I postponed two meetings and absolutely cannot miss my eleven o’clock appointment.”
Wernher von Braun, not accustomed to being so ordered, made a face as he locked eyes with Kappler.
“Very well,” von Braun said. “Tell me about Walter Höss.”
Oh, he’s a real winner. You can have him to go with Schwartz.
But then I’d have to replace him, and I already have him in my pocket.
The next man may not be as easy.
“In all honesty, Wernher?”
“Of course!”
“Well, while Höss is not in Schwartz’s league—”
“Few are,” von Braun interrupted. “You must miss him.”
Oh, yes.
How I miss the bastard.
“—I believe him to be quite capable. He is doing fine in the job.”
“Very good. Then there is no reason that the Special Program quotas cannot be met?”
What do I tell him?
“Well, Wernher, my friend, the first thing I am going to do when I am done in Berlin is rush back to Frankfurt and try to find a quiet way to sabotage the conversion of the plant from high explosives to nerve gas. Other than that? Everything should be fine.”
“None that I know of,” Kappler said. “Everything should be fine.”
“Very good. It is critical that we remain on schedule. We have been dealt setbacks. First with the bombings in the Ruhr Valley. Loss of the manufacture of certain metals has required that I redesign airfoils among other parts. . . .” He paused, then went on, “I do not know why I tell you this, except having just now been on the receiving end of Hitler’s temper I’m still mentally going over all that I now need to do.”
“I understand.”
“I presume your steelwork losses in the Ruhr are the reason for your meeting with Herr Krupp.”
So he did put some thought into why I mentioned Krupp.
“Among other things, yes.”
“You have my sympathies. I cannot tell you how upset losing Klaus has been,” Wernher von Braun then said.
What?
“You lost Klaus? He no longer works with you?”
Wernher von Braun suddenly looked shocked.
“You don’t know?” he said. “I must say that I am surprised—”
“I’ve been traveling a great deal, as I said. What about Klaus?”
“Klaus was killed by those gottverdammt Polish guerrillas!”
Kappler shook his head.
Who else knows this? Höss clearly doesn’t.
“What exactly happened?”
Von Braun looked at him a long moment, clearly deciding what he should—and should not—share.
He then exhaled audibly and began, “Much of this is highly secret, but Reich Minister Bormann would not have sent me here if you could not be made privy to such. When Klaus was killed, he was traveling for me—I could very well be the one who could be dead right now. He was sent to inspect a manufacturing facility for the Special Program. The railroad tracks were sabotaged, and when his train crashed, Klaus was killed. The entire scene went up in flames.”
“That is tragic,” Kappler said, hoping his tone sounded appropriately concerned.
“It has been a significant setback,” von Braun said.
Always about the work, Wernher?
“As you know, he left behind a wife and four young children,” von Braun added almost absently, then sipped his coffee.
Kappler looked at him. And how many more young families will be left behind because of your new bombs?
“I do know the family. Sad,” Kappler said. “He was traveling alone?”
Von Braun returned his cup to its saucer as he shook his head.
“With two SS scharführers on my personal passenger car. It was the only railcar, as it was a trip of the highest priority. We cannot afford any further setbacks—Der Führer has made it extremely clear that he wants the V-bombs falling on London immediately—and I have selected a manufacturing site that, unlike our current one, is far more difficult for enemy aircraft to reach. It would appear particulary imperative in view of the fact that the enemy now has struck the Ruhr Valley.”
“I understand completely,” Kappler said. “So we will be shipping the material to this new manufacturing site. . . .”
Von Braun nodded. “They have already repaired the sabotaged railroad track, and construction continues only slightly behind schedule.”
“And this manufacturing site is where?”
You said the “gottverdammt Polish guerrillas” . . .
Von Braun looked at him another long moment, and Kappler could clearly see that he again was deciding what he should—and should not—share.
“I’m afraid that that currently is restricted information,” he finally said. “I’m sure you will know soon enough.”
Kappler raised his eyebrows and grunted.
Kappler then wordlessly reached across his desk. He picked up a large manila envelope, fingered open its brass clasp, and double-checked the contents. Then he slid the sheets back inside and flattened the clasp.
He stood and held out the envelope to von Braun.
“You will find all the production figures in there, both current and projected, not only meet but exceed the quotas required,” Wolfgang Kappler said perfunctorily, then took a long look at his wristwatch, tapping its crystal with his index finger. “If there is nothing else . . .”
The look on Wernher von Braun’s face showed that he did not appreciate at all being dismissed. But he took the envelope and stood, then walked to the doors without another word.
At the doors, he turned and said, “Wolfgang, I think it might be a good idea that when Reich Minister Bormann and I share news about the Special Program with Der Führer, that you accompany us. That way you may—how shall I say?—personally witness how fervent his genuine conviction is for this Special Program. If you take my meaning . . .”
He pulled open the door and went through it.
* * *
It had taken Wolfgang Kappler nearly fifteen minutes to walk from his headquarters office to the Bebelplatz, the popular Mitte district public square. The gray sky heavy
with humidity, he had walked quickly, worried that it might begin to rain at any moment.
As he moved the folded newspaper under his right arm to under his left arm, he turned south, away from the wide boulevard Unter den Linden. He wound through the crowd, circling the square twice, finally stopping at a bench to retie his shoes while carefully scanning the crowd for anyone who might be following him.
So far it is good, I guess.
He checked to make sure that the newspaper was still properly folded—that the manila envelope it concealed was not visible.
He had placed the envelope inside the paper in what he hoped would appear to be a casual fashion, so that were he stopped and the envelope found it would not look suspect. While the envelope contained details on the Secret Program, it wasn’t as if he was not supposed to have it.
Still, he knew that being caught with it and having to answer questions was something that needed to be avoided at all costs.
Kappler then walked past the State Opera building and headed directly for the far end of the square. He reached Saint Hedwig’s Cathedral, and after he entered the copper-domed neoclassical structure that was modeled after Rome’s Pantheon, he came to the holy water, dipped a finger, crossed himself, and silently said a prayer for his family’s safety.
He skirted the sanctuary, glancing in and seeing a dozen or more parishioners dotting the pews, on their knees praying. He finally came to the door that was the first confessional booth, and entered. He pulled the door closed and turned to the wall partition. There was a wooden railing midway up the partition and a pillow on the floor, both for praying. Above the railing was a gap—just large enough to pass a prayer book and perhaps some rosary beads—and above that a small door.
As Kappler knelt on the pillow, the small door slid open.
In a Pavlovian reflex, as Kappler had done all his Roman Catholic life, he automatically said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. . . .”
Then he heard a deep chuckle on the opposite side of the partition.
Wolfgang Kappler angrily shook his head.
How dare he mock me!
And in the House of the Lord!
A small envelope then appeared in the gap above the railing. As he took it, he then heard a familiar voice.
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 30
