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He watched Schrader, hands stuffed in his pockets, casually cross the highly polished stone floor and stop at one of the half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows with the heavy burgundy-colored drapes pulled back to either side.
Schrader looked out at the sickle-shaped Port of Messina—which the previous night had been busy with a troopship off-loading German and Italian soldiers—and across the emerald green Strait of Messina. The toe of the boot that was mainland Italy was five kilometers away.
Kappler knew that Schrader stood at the window to project a quiet image of one in deep thought, but felt that he overdid it to the point that it appeared pretentious.
“There is not time to calm down,” Kappler went on. “We almost had a disastrous experience with these nerve gas weapons, and now they are sending more this week?”
Schrader, still looking out the window, said, “I expected you to be troubled by that, which is why I’m sending you to Palermo this afternoon to ensure all the necessary safeguards are in order.”
“And now this Abwehr agent is asking about the nerve gas,” Kappler went on, “which of course I lied about any knowledge of.”
Schrader turned to look at Kappler.
“He asked—what is this agent’s name?—about the Tabun?”
“Beck. Ernst Beck is his name. And, yes, he asked. I said I had no idea what he was talking about.”
Schrader met Kappler’s eyes for a long moment, nodded thoughtfully, and said, “Interesting.”
Then he turned to look back out the window.
Well, I think that convinced him, Kappler thought.
Or at least threw him off the scent for now . . .
* * *
At nine o’clock that morning, SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler had been seated on the patio of Café Alessandro that overlooked Piazza Salvatore
. It was a warm, sunny morning, and a little more than half of the dozen small round wrought-iron tables were occupied. Kappler had picked one that was in an empty corner with a good view of the piazza.
He was sipping a black coffee and admiring the attractive Sicilian girls making their way to the nearby University of Messina when a man in an ill-fitting rumpled suit approached his table. The man looked to be maybe thirty years old, five-foot-nine, and 190. He had a friendly face with dark, inquisitive eyes and thin black hair that went to his collar and could use a trim. A small white rose was pinned to his lapel.
“Herr Kappler?”
“It is that obvious?” Kappler said, standing and offering his hand.
“The uniform was my first clue.”
“I see.”
“It is my pleasure to finally meet you. I am Ernst Beck,” he said as he shook Kappler’s hand, impressed with his firm—but not crushing—grip and the fact that he maintained eye contact throughout.
Beck then added, “Actually, the uniform was my second clue. We of course have a quite detailed dossier on you back at the office.”
Kappler made eye contact again.
Would that have anything to do with who my father is? His companies and connections with the High Command?
Or perhaps because I am not exactly blindly faithful to Der Führer and his crumbling Reich?
I didn’t exactly throw out my arm and bark “Heil Hitler!” just now. . . .
“Yes, of course you do, Herr Beck. You are, after all, with the German Trade Ministry,” he said, slightly sarcastic.
I’ve known the ministry was your cover since the first day you set foot in Sicily.
“Please, call me Ernst,” Beck said, ignoring the sarcasm.
