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Müller suddenly laughed, then looked sorry for having done so. He rubbed his temples and said, “Yes, to watch the troopers—especially the Italians—running around here shitting themselves and ready to shoot at anything that moved—usually each other—was rather humorous. After a couple days, they calmed down.” He chuckled. “That could be because a lot of them wore themselves out at the Hotel Michelangelo.”

“They what?”

Müller nodded. “They were with the women and wine. Our hotel made quite a profit for nearly a week—until the troopers realized not a single bomb had landed anywhere near them.”

Kappler grunted.

He said: “What about the intelligence report that states the same May eighteenth bombing of Pantelleria will commence here June seventh?”

This time Müller grunted.

“If one believes everything one hears, then the invasion itself is to take place on that date. We’ve been monitoring the radio traffic of the Americans and . . .”

“And what?” Kappler said. “You seem very sure of yourself.”

Müller locked eyes with him.

“Would you like to know a secret?”

I’m your superior officer, you arrogant bastard!

I have the right to know everything that you do—and more!

“I suppose,” Kappler replied, as he went to sip his coffee.

Müller stood, a little too quickly, and wobbled a bit, then motioned for Kappler to follow.

* * *

They went up a raw stone stairwell to the top floor of the SS Provisional Headquarters building.

They came to a wooden door that was locked.

“Open up!” Müller called, as he rattled the doorknob.

After a long moment, the sound of the lock turning could be heard. When the door swung open, SS-Scharführer Otto Lieber stood there.

What the hell? Kappler thought.

Otto stepped aside as Müller waved Kappler inside. Otto then closed and locked the door.

Kappler then saw Günther Burger sitting at a desk in front of what appeared to be a telegraph radio station. He held a headset to his ear.

Those switches and dials are labeled in English!

“An American wireless,” Kappler said.

Müller nodded.

“Shortly after the explosions,” he began, careful not to reveal anything to the scharführers, “I discovered a spy cell. Intact. We interrogated its operator—an American spy—and were then able to successfully convince his handlers that we were him. That he was us. That . . .”

“I understand. The Americans believe their man still is secretly spying.”

“Exactly.”

“Why am I just now learning of this, Müller?”

Müller seemed hesitant to answer, and glanced at the scharführers and then at Kappler.