Page 83

Schutzstaffel Field Office

Palermo, Sicily

1830 30 May 1943

This is the last place I want to be right now, SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler thought as the driver turned off the engine, but at least I’m out of Messina. And I’m ready to get out of this goddamn car.

Starting before noon, Kappler had been almost desperate for an excuse to leave the SS headquarters. He knew painfully well that he was disturbed by the contents of the letter from his father, and feared that his distraction was apparent to anyone and everyone—and particularly obvious to SS-Standartenführer Julius Schrader.

Schrader took an odd pleasure in boasting that, having known Kappler so long, “I can read you like an open book, my friend.”

Kappler did not buy that—and often took offense at what he considered Schrader’s prying into his private life, especially his family’s wealth and privilege—but that did not stop Schrader from trying. Thus, Oskar did not want to be around Juli all damn day, and tomorrow, and very likely the next, constantly having to fend off what he knew would be Schrader’s persistent proclamations as to why Kappler was behaving in such an unusual manner.

When Kappler had heard Schrader mention checking on Müller and his SS field office operations, he had had to restrain himself from appearing overly eager. Schrader knew Kappler loathed Müller. Thus, Kappler had gone to his office and passed a couple hours—a time frame that seemed much longer—then finally stood in the doorway to Schrader’s office and, in a tone he hoped came across as casual if not bored, announced that he would be leaving to drive to Palmero.

Schrader had made a harumph sound, and said, “I think not.”

What the hell? Kappler thought.

“Otto will drive you,” Schrader had then announced. “That is not open for discussion. That is an order, my friend. I can see that you are mentally distracted over this morning’s meeting with the Abwehr agent and the topic of nerve gas. I do not want to find myself sending out a team for search and rescue because you lost your way and drove off a cliff into the Mediterranean Sea. The trip will give you the opportunity to ensure that Müller continues making proper amends. And a nice three-hour drive and change of scenery will be mentally cleansing.”

Otto Lieber was Schrader’s newly arrived SS-scharführer bodyguard. He was slight of build, a fresh-faced, blue-eyed blond seventeen-year-old Weisbadener whose peach fuzz cheeks convinced Kappler that he’d yet to have his first shave.

Schrader glanced at his wristwatch.

“It is now just after three o’clock,” he said. “Otto should have you arrive around six, in time for Müller to treat you to drinks and a nice dinner.”

“I’ll be fine driving myself,” Kappler protested.

Schrader held up his hand, palm out.

“You’ll be better being driven, my friend. I will send for Otto to bring around my personal vehicle. Nothing but the best for you!”

Kappler thought, I despise that little car!

He looked Schrader in the eyes and sighed audibly.

“Very well, Juli. I surrender. I suppose I should be saying, ‘Thank you.’”

“Yes, you should.”

The next thing Kappler knew, the scharführer was pulling up outside the headquarters building in Schrader’s two-year-old Fiat 1500.

Kappler put his overnight bag in what passed for a backseat and his black leather briefcase on the front floorboard. Then he made a tight-lipped smile at the driver as he squeezed his tall, athletic body into the cramped two-door Italian sports car.

* * *

SS-Scharführer Otto Lieber, after the initial twenty minutes of forced small talk about weather and how great the war was going, quickly got the message that SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler had no desire to spend the trip chatting.

“If you don’t mind, I have a few things to consider before we reach our destination,” Kappler said.

“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer! I fully understand,” Lieber said, and turned his attention to the winding coastal two-lane road, running the Fiat up and down its gears.

There was nothing to see but ocean and the waves pounding the rocky shoreline, and Kappler gazed out at it in deep thought.

That morning, after shaking hands with Ernst Beck and leaving Café Alessandro, Kappler had reread his father’s letter a half-dozen times, at the very least, and now had it memorized.

Father always used my full name when I was a child—especially when he was angry as hell. I can hear it now, his voice growling: “Oskar Karl Kappler, you will do as I say or else!”