“And what would you have for me, my sinful son?” Hans Bernd Gisevius said in a sonorous tone.
[FOUR]
OSS London Station
Berkeley Square
London, England
1110 1 June 1943
Not bothering to knock, Deputy Station Chief Ed Stevens walked quickly into Station Chief David Bruce’s office and said, “I was just given this Eyes Only in the commo room. It’s from Allen Dulles to us and Donovan. This is not going to be good.”
David Bruce looked up from his writing and took the document.
“Another fait accompli, I gather?” Bruce said idly.
“Well, let’s just say we’re about to get busier.”
Bruce flipped past the TOP SECRET cover sheet, and his eyes fell to the message:
* * *
TOP SECRET
OPERATIONAL IMMEDIATE
1JUNE43 0835
FOR
OSS WASHINGTON -- EYES ONLY GEN DONOVAN
OSS LONDON STATION -- EYES ONLY COL BRUCE, LT COL STEVENS
FROM OSS BERN
BEGIN QUOTE
GENTLEMEN,
I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED THAT THERE IS NO GOOD WAY TO ANNOUNCE BAD NEWS, AND ESPECIALLY NOT TO SUGAR-COAT IT. THAT SAID: HITLER DOES IN FACT HAVE AERIAL TORPEDOES -- THE FIESELER 103, HEREAFTER “V-1” -- UNDER PRODUCTION. THERE ARE DESIGNS FOR THE V-1 TO CARRY WARHEADS CONTAINING HIGH EXPLOSIVE AND CHEMICAL WARFARE AGENTS.
WHEN WE CAME INTO POSSESSION OF THE FILES SHOWING ACTUAL PRODUCTION DATA FROM CHEMISCHE FABRIK FRANKFURT A.G. FOR THE AMATOL AND THE TABUN, WE FOUND THAT IT ALSO CONTAINED PRODUCTION DATA FOR THE V-1. THE EVER EFFICIENT SS-STURMBANNFUHRER KLAUS SCHWARTZ HAD KEPT THESE COPIES IN HIS CHEMISCHE FABRIK OFFICE, PRESUMABLY NOT EXPECTING HIS EARLY EXPIRATION (MORE ON THAT SHORTLY).
THE V-1 FUSELAGE IS ABOUT 22 FEET LONG, 3 FEET IN DIAMETER, WITH A 17-FOOT WINGSPAN. ENGINE IS PULSE-JET. MAX FUEL IS 160 US GALLONS OF E-1 AVIATION GAS. MAX CRUISE IS 415 MPH AT 4,500 FEET. MAX RANGE IS 130 MILES WITH A 1-TON AMATOL WARHEAD. (NO FIGURES FOR TABUN WARHEAD DUE TO NO TESTS CONDUCTED. BUT TABUN WARHEAD WILL WEIGH ABOUT HALF THE AMATOL, GIVING THE WEAPON AT LEAST GREATER RANGE AND VERY LIKELY FASTER MAX SPEED.)
AS WE WERE AWARE, THE FIRST V-1 UNPOWERED FLIGHT WAS IN OCTOBER 1942, LAUNCHED FROM AN FW-200 KONDOR. THE FIRST SELF-POWERED FLIGHT WAS IN DECEMBER 1942.
WE NOW LEARN THAT THERE SINCE HAVE BEEN EXACTLY ONE HUNDRED (100) TEST LAUNCHES OF THE V-1, WITH APPROXIMATELY ONE-THIRD (1/3) AIR-DROPPED FROM HEINKEL HE-111 AIRCRAFT AND THE REMAINDER LAUNCHED FROM GROUND-BASED CATAPULTS.
THE VAST MAJORITY OF THESE WERE, IN ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, FAILURES. ONLY ONE (1) IN TEN (10) ACTUALLY PERFORMED CLOSE TO WHAT WERNHER VON BRAUN HAD EXPECTED. NOT ONE OF THE 100 MADE IT DIRECTLY ON TARGET.
IT WOULD APPEAR THAT EVEN ROCKET SCIENTISTS HAVE BAD DAYS, AS VON BRAUN DID NOT KNOW WHAT EXACTLY WAS THE ROOT OF THE V-1 PROBLEMS. NEWS OF THIS HAS MADE HITLER FURIOUS, YET HITLER WAS IN FACT PART OF THE PROBLEM BECAUSE HE HAS ORDERED VON BRAUN TO RUSH THE PROGRAM.
DUE TO THE RUSH, THE MAJOR COMPONENTS -- ENGINE, AIRFRAME, GUIDANCE SYSTEM, CATAPULT -- HAD BEEN TESTED SEPARATELY. WHEN THEY WERE ASSEMBLED AND THE V-1 TESTED, VON BRAUN FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO DETERMINE WHICH PART -- OR PARTS IN CONCERT -- WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR A PARTICULAR CRASH.
ONE MAJOR CAUSE WAS VIBRATION. AT FIRST, THE WINGS WOULD STRIP OFF, THEN THE FUSELAGE WOULD BREAK APART. IT BECAME CLEAR THAT THE MAIN SOURCE OF VIBRATION WAS THE ENGINE ITSELF. THE PULSE-JET IGNITES FUEL 50 TIMES PER SECOND, CAUSING A REMARKABLE AMOUNT OF VIBRATION. IT TOOK EXTENSIVE TESTING ONCE THE SOLUTION OF INSULATING THE ENGINE WAS REACHED. THEN THEY HAD TO FINE-TUNE THE WING DESIGN. BECAUSE THE NECESSARY TYPE OF STEEL IS IN SHORT SUPPLY, THE WINGS HAD TO BE CRAFTED OF PLYWOOD.
AND THEN THEY HAD PROBLEMS WITH THE LAUNCH DEVICE. A PISTON THAT CONNECTS TO THE FUSELAGE IS PROPELLED BY HIGH PRESSURE GAS. THEY FIRST HAD TO TWEAK THE PRESSURE OF THAT GAS TO THE FIRST TESTS. WHEN THE ROCKETS WERE MODIFIED TO ADDRESS THE PROBLEMS WITH THE PULSE-JET VIBRATIONS, THE LAUNCHER HAD TO BE RECONFIGURED. AND WHEN THE WOODEN WINGS WERE THEN MODIFIED, AGAIN THE LAUNCHER HAD TO BE RECONFIGURED. AND SO ON. THEY BURNED THROUGH THOSE 100 V-1S IN SHORT ORDER -- ABOUT TWO MONTHS.
HITLER AGAIN COMPOUNDED PROBLEMS BY DEMANDING THAT THE V-1 BE LAUNCHED FROM BOTH GROUND AND AIR IN ORDER TO DELIVER QUOTE AN OVERWHELMING PUNCH UNQUOTE. GEN MILCH DID NOT THINK THAT AN AIRBORNE LAUNCHER WOULD FUNCTION ON A HE-111 -- HE ARGUED THAT THE WEIGHT AND DRAG WOULD DANGEROUSLY SLOW THE BOMBER, MAKING IT AN EASY TARGET -- BUT AGREED TO DO SO WHEN CONVINCED IT WOULD CONFUSE THE ALLIES.
WITH THE BUGS NOW MOSTLY WORKED OUT, HITLER IS DEMANDING THAT PRODUCTION BEGIN IMMEDIATELY SO THAT FIVE THOUSAND (5,000) V-1S CAN BE LAUNCHED IN DECEMBER 1943.
IN ADDITION TO THE CHEMISCHE FABRIK STANDARD PRODUCTION OF AMATOL, THERE NOW IS A V-1 SPECIAL PROGRAM ORDER -- SIGNED BY FIELD MARSHAL MILCH, GEN VON AXTHELM, AND REICH MINISTER GORING -- REQUIRING 100 TONS OF AMATOL EACH MONTH, RISING TO 5,000 TONS EACH MONTH, AND ABOUT HALF THAT OF TABUN.
AS TO THE EXPIRATION OF KLAUS SCHWARTZ, HIS DEATH BY THE POLISH HOME ARMY WAS CONFIRMED BY WERNHER VON BRAUN WHEN HE MET YESTERDAY WITH WOLFGANG KAPPLER IN BERLIN. VON BRAUN STATED THAT SCHWARTZ, UNDER HIS ORDERS AND USING HIS PERSONAL RAILCAR, HAD BEEN TRAVELING WITH THE TWO SS-SCHARFUHRERS (NOTED IN MY 28 MAY MESSAGE TO YOU) WHEN SABOTAGE BY QUOTE POLISH GUERRILLAS UNQUOTE DERAILED THEIR TRAIN. HE DESCRIBED THE TRIP AS ONE OF QUOTE HIGHEST PRIORITY UNQUOTE.
HE WOULD NOT REVEAL TO EVEN KAPPLER WHERE THIS HAPPENED. BUT SINCE WE KNOW IT WAS NEAR THE CAMP UNDER CONSTRUCTION AT BLIZNA, POLAND, I HUMBLY SUGGEST THAT THE CAMP IS CLOSELY CONNECTED TO ONE OF VON BRAUN’S PROGRAMS. AND AS SUCH, HAVING HAD ITS RAILROAD SABOTAGED, IT WILL BE MORE HEAVILY GUARDED THAN BEFORE.
LASTLY, WE HAVE WORD BACK FROM THE ABWEHR AGENT IN MESSINA WHO MET WITH OSKAR KAPPLER TWO DAYS AGO. THE AGENT TOLD BRIGADE GENERAL HANS OSTER, DEPUTY DIRECTOR TO ADMIRAL CANARIS, THAT SON BELIEVES AS HIS FATHER DOES.
IN LIGHT OF ALL THE ABOVE, IT IS MY OPINION THAT GETTING KAPPLER’S WIFE AND DAUGHTER AND SON TO SAFETY SHOULD TAKE PLACE AT FIRST OPPORTUNITY.
TO THAT END, I HAVE SENT, THROUGH THE MESSINA ABWEHR AGENT, A MESSAGE TO OSKAR KAPPLER -- UNDER WOLFGANG KAPPLER’S SIGNATURE BUT WITHOUT HIS KNOWLEDGE -- ALERTING OSKAR TO EXPECT CONTACT FROM OSS AGENT JUPITER FOR HIS EXTRACTION.
STAN FINE WILL LET ME KNOW WHEN JUPITER HAS THE SON. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU HAVE THE WIFE AND DAUGHTER.
END QUOTE
DULLES
TOP SECRET
* * *
“With a range of a hundred and thirty miles,” Stevens said, “it would appear that von Braun really did design the V-1 specifically to strike London. It’s right at a hundred miles between here and France’s coastline. I wonder what Churchill’s pompous pal the Prof will have to say if these bombs start hitting here. And in December?” He paused, then added, “This is Ike’s worst fear.”
“Using the five thousand figure,” David Bruce said, “one-tenth means five hundred aerial torpedoes hitting London. And with ‘the bugs worked out,’ that figure could likely be higher.”
“But it also said that not one of them hit close to its target.”
“Moot point. Considering that each one is said to be carrying a one-ton warhead of high explosive—making the total five hundred tons—this may well be akin to horseshoes.”
“Horseshoes?”
“As in: ‘Close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.’ And now with aerial torpedoes. Five hundred tons of Amatol blowing up anywhere close to target will serve the purpose of terrorizing London. And, as Ike says, jeopardize the cross-channel invasion.”
After a moment, Stevens added, “Well, we now have a pretty good idea why the Germans are keeping Schwartz’s demise very quiet.”
David Bruce looked at the message again, then tapped it and said, “Hans Oster and Canaris have a long history. Oster is part of Canaris’s Black Orchestra.”
“So then you really think that Dulles is setting up Kappler for ‘extra-legal’ wo
rk?” Stevens said.
“What I think is that Dulles knows if Old Man Kappler finds that his family has suddenly disappeared, he damn well might be angry enough to do something like that.”
Stevens considered that, nodded, and said, “I have to admit that I know I would.”
“As would I.”
Bruce looked back at the message, then said: “I don’t need to await word from Wild Bill Donovan. Get an urgent sent to Stanley telling him to message Canidy that this Oskar Kappler is expecting Jupiter to contact him. Canidy is to get Kappler out of sight yesterday, and out of Sicily soonest.”
“I hate to ask this, but dead or alive? Dulles said ‘to safety.’”
Ambassador David K. E. Bruce looked at him a long moment.
“Do you mean what’s the right thing to do?”
Stevens said, “No. I made that mistake one time, and Wild Bill handed me my head. He said, ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that. I thought by now you would have figured out that “the right thing” has absolutely no meaning for the OSS. We do what has to be done, and “right” has absolutely nothing to do with that.’”
Bruce then said: “Which in this case means that Oskar Kappler dead would (a) serve the same purpose as his disappearance—as you said earlier, getting the old man to do what we need—and (b) make the mission much simpler for Canidy.”
“And that is what I figured—”
“But,” Bruce went on, “having a grateful SS officer in our pocket for Operation Husky, one who’s been running intel in Sicily for the last two years, would be extremely valuable, too. So tell him alive if at all possible. But, paraphrasing Robert Burns, should the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men go to hell . . .”
Stevens raised his eyebrows and nodded.
X
[ONE]
Room 801
Hotel Michelangelo
Palermo, Sicily
0725 1 June 1943
Dick Canidy suddenly awoke when he first heard the banging, then, a couple moments later, pounding.
He sat up, groggy, and looked quickly around the room, trying to get his bearings. The early morning sun lit the room. He had on only a bath towel that covered his waist.
Shit. I fell asleep—and deeply.
Who the hell is doing that banging?
Pulling his .45 from under the pillow, he looked at the door and listened.
The hammering came again.
Not my door . . . it’s coming from down the hall.
Jesus! Are they really at it again?
Talk about trying to get the most bang for your buck. . . .
He stood, adjusted the towel, and went to the door.
He opened it a crack and peered out and immediately saw two men in the hallway.
And what the hell are they doing?
* * *
Just before dusk the day before, Canidy, running out of immediate options, reluctantly had gone back to the hotel.
He found the lobby and lounge crowded. There were a few civilians. But the brothel was packed mostly with German and Italian sailors, all drinking and laughing too loudly as they got friendly with Jimmy Skinny’s girls.
No one in the boisterous crowd showed any interest in Canidy as he worked his way through the lobby and started climbing what he realized was the first of seven flights of steps to the top floor.
As he passed each floor, there was at least one hostess leading her client in or out of one of the ten rooms there.
Reaching the top floor, Canidy looked up and down the hall. He saw that there were only four doors on the eighth floor, not one near the other. As he passed Room 802 he thought he heard from inside it the distinct sound of a woman’s deep, rhythmic moans.
I’m not going to have to listen to that all night, am I?
He came to 801, fed the key into the lock, then pulled out his .45. He entered and checked the suite, looking inside its small empty closet, under the iron-frame bed, and then in the tiny full bath. He found nothing unusual.
He glanced around the room and decided that it was much better than he had expected.
Certainly a helluva lot better than Mariano’s dump.
From the looks—there then came from across the hall the distant bam-bam-bam of a headboard hitting against a wall—and the sounds of it—business must be good.
The black iron bed frame held a full-sized mattress. When he pressed his open hand on it, he found that the mattress was reasonably firm and that the well-washed sheets were thin but reasonably comfortable. Side tables were on either side, one with a lamp and one with a box of wooden matches and a tin ashtray.
Canidy dug in his jacket pocket and fished out a cigar stub, and lit it.
He saw on the far side of the suite was a squat couch, the corners of its cloth upholstery threadbare. And, in front of that, a scarred wooden coffee table. His eyes lit up.
On it were two unopened liquor bottles, one of them of the same Italian grappa brandy that Canidy had had a toast with Jimmy Skinny and the other a red wine. Next to that was a plate with two kinds of soft cheeses, a small loaf of bread, a bowl of olives, and a glass jar packed with sardines marinated in what looked like olive oil. And two empty glass jars meant to serve as drinking glasses.
Canidy’s stomach growled.
Jimmy Skinny really knows how to take care of gli amici.
Why did I even think of not staying here?
Simple. Because the clientele seemed to be mostly Krauts—and now the Italian Navy.
Then he looked around the room and then up, along the ceiling.
And because this place is probably one of the bugged ones.
But as long as I keep my head down, eyes open, and mouth shut, I should be fine.
He found a corkscrew, cracked open the bottle of wine, and half-filled one of the glass jars.
He grabbed a fistful of olives and popped a couple in his mouth as he carried the jar of wine over to the window. He saw that he had a clear view of most of Palermo and all of the port—and Civil War Major General John Buford, the Union Army cavalry officer, suddenly came to mind.
He puffed on his cigar and grunted.
“General, we have taken the tactical high ground, have a solid foothold, and the enemy in sight. All is well.”
We may be one helluva long way from Gettysburg, General Buford, sir, but battles is battles.
Then he thought: Where the hell are you out there, John Craig?
And Tubes?
And I don’t even want to think about that Kappler SS bastard.
He took a healthy gulp of the wine, then could not help but notice that there was only one S-boat at the pier—and I don’t want to try to think what that means—and, moored opposite it, there now was an Italian submarine.
The sleek black one-hundred-eighty-foot-long Ascianghi had a complement of nearly forty crew and six officers.
Well, that damn sure explains all the drunk swabbies—shore leave.
No coincidence that rhymes with whore leave.
He then had a sudden need to hit the head—this wine is going right through me—and made a beeline for it.
Fifteen minutes and one lukewarm bath later, he came back into the room with a towel around his waist, poured another half-jar of wine, then went and sat on the bed.
He took a gulp of the wine, put the jar on the side table, and leaned back on the pillow.
Setting priorities, he thought as he closed his eyes, here’s what I know . . .
One, find Kappler, then await word as to what I’m supposed to do with the bastard. Killing him—or having it look like the SS or OVR did it—certainly would simplify that. But, failing that . . .
Two, in order to find out what I’m supposed to do with Kappler, I have to find John Craig and/or his suitcase radio to get my messages from Stan and Neptune or . . .
Three, go out and get one of the suitcase radios I stashed. And probably the C-2. And definitely a bottle of that scotch.
He grinned.
Not nec
essarily in that order of importance.
And then there’s the original One and Two—now Four and Five—finding Tubes and Frank, and any Tabun.
Forget verifying the half-million troopers. Even Jimmy Skinny didn’t seem to buy that bullshit figure.
Canidy had suddenly caught himself in a huge yawn.
What I don’t know is if John Craig got nabbed like Tubes did . . . or if I’ll find either of them.
He had yawned again.
Then he had fallen asleep.
* * *
And then, nearly eight hours later, the hammering started.
[TWO]
Room 802
Hotel Michelangelo
Palermo, Sicily
0725 1 June 1943
SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler was gently awakened from a deep, contented sleep by soft snoring and warm breath on his chest. He looked down at the naked young woman wrapped in his left arm—and suddenly had extremely conflicting feelings.
Lucia, sound asleep, had her left leg intertwined with Oskar’s. She rested her head and left hand on his chest, her fingertips lost in his chest hair and her wavy dark hair. The sensation of her warm body weight rising and falling with his breathing and the peacefulness of her beautiful face made him long for them to be in a far different time and place.
Would such a loving and innocent young woman be selling herself were it not for this damn war?
He inhaled deeply. The aroma of her delicate lilac fragrance mingled with the husky, sensual smell that had come from their repeated couplings—energetic, exhilarating, and ultimately exhausting—over the course of the last two nights.
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 31
