Luciano’s Luck. Jack Higgins
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cut each other’s throats as cheerfully as they do ours.’
‘General Walther was explaining to me about this Mafia movement,’ Kesselring said. ‘Are they a force to be reckoned with?’
‘Yes, I think they have very real power under the surface of things and again, they are peculiarly Sicilian. Mainland Italy and Mussolini mean nothing to them.’
‘And if an invasion comes, they will fight?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ Koenig nodded. ‘All of them. Our main worry would be the Italian Army itself.’
‘You think so?’ Kesselring asked.
Koenig took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet. ‘Frankly, Herr Field Marshal, I think the fact must be faced that the Italian people as a whole, have lost any interest they ever had in the war and all enthusiasm for Mussolini.’
There was a slight pause and then Kesselring smiled. ‘An accurate enough assessment. I wouldn’t disagree with that. So, you think invasion will come to Sicily?’
Koenig ran a finger along the road south from Palermo to Agrigento. ‘Here is the most vital road in the whole of Sicily, passing through the Cammarata, one of the wildest and most primitive places in the island. There has been considerable partisan activity in that area recently. According to our informants, a number of American agents have been dropped by parachute during the past few weeks. So far, we haven’t succeeded in catching any of them.’
Kesselring picked up a folder from the desk. ‘And yet you almost had this man.’ He opened the file. ‘Major Harry Carter, in charge of the Italian desk at Special Operations Executive in Cairo. You had him, Koenig, and let him slip through your fingers.’
‘With respect, Herr Field Marshal,’ Koenig corrected him firmly, ‘my task was to provide back-up forces on the ground. The affair was in the hands of the Geheimefeldpolizei and Gestapo. And I would remind you, sir, that thanks to Russia, I have only thirty-five men remaining in what was once a battalion. Not a single officer is left on the strength except myself.’
‘The capture of Carter would have been an intelligence coup of the first order and Berlin, in the person of Reichsführer Himmler, is not pleased. To that end he has ordered the transfer of one of his most trusted intelligence officers from the Rome Office to work with you here.’
‘I see, Herr Field Marshal,’ Koenig said. ‘Gestapo?’
‘Oh, no,’ Kesselring told him gravely. ‘Rather more important than that.’ He turned to Walther. ‘Show Major Meyer in.’
The man who entered was broad and squat with a flat Slav face and cold blue eyes. Koenig recognized the type at once for the security service was full of them; ex-police officers, more used to the criminal underworld than anything else. He wore SS field uniform and his only decoration was the Order of Blood, a much coveted Nazi medal specially struck for those who had served prison sentences for political crimes in the old Weimar Republic. The most interesting fact about him was his cuff-title which carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the symbol of Himmler’s personal staff.
‘Major Franz Meyer, Major Koenig.’ Walther made the introductions while Kesselring stood looking out of the window, smoking a cigarette.
Meyer took in everything about Koenig with the policeman’s practised eye: the highly irregular SS uniform, the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords.
‘A pleasure, Major,’ he said.
Koenig turned to Kesselring. ‘There is a difficulty here, I think, Herr Field Marshal. Who is to be in charge? Meyer and I would appear to carry the same rank.’
‘No difficulty there, I hope?’ Kesselring said, smoothly. ‘I see you as performing separate functions; you being responsible for the purely military side of the operation and Major Meyer for the, how shall I put it? The more political aspects.’
‘There will be no problem from my point of view, I can assure the Herr Field Marshal of that,’ Meyer said.
‘Excellent.’ Kesselring managed a wintry smile. ‘And now, if you would leave us, Meyer. There are still matters I wish to discuss with Major Koenig.’
Meyer clicked his heels, delivered an impressive Heil Hitler and departed. When he’d gone, Kesselring said, ‘I know what you’re going to say, Koenig, and you’re quite right. It places you in a most difficult situation.’
‘Almost impossible, Herr Field Marshal. I will have no authority of rank, which means the wretched man can interfere as much as he likes.’
He was angry and it showed. Kesselring said, ‘Rank has little to do with the matter. As a member of the Reichsführer’s personal staff, he will always have considerable influence in certain situations, even were I myself concerned. However, I have done the best I can for you in the circumstances.’
He nodded to Walther who handed Koenig a buff envelope. Koenig started to open it and Kesselring said, ‘No, keep it for later.’ He held out his hand in another of those unexpected gestures. ‘I wish you luck. You’re going to need it.’
‘Herr Field Marshal – General.’ Koenig saluted, turned and went out.
Franz Meyer stood in the hall, pretending to read the noticeboard as he waited for Koenig.
His dislike for the Major had been immediate and it went beyond any personal jealousy of Koenig’s military distinction. The truth was far deeper. Koenig was a gentleman, son of a Major General of the Luftwaffe. Meyer, on the other hand, was the third son of a Hamburg shoemaker who had served the last two years of the First World War in the trenches, who had starved like thousands of others in Germany during the twenties, thanks to the British and the French and the Jews until the Führer had come along, a man of the people, giving hope to the people. And Meyer had served him since those first days, one of the earliest party members in Hamburg. The Führer himself had pinned the Blood Order on him. The Koenigs of the world, who thought themselves so far above him, had a lesson to learn.
He turned as Koenig approached. ‘Ah, there you are, Major. I would very much appreciate an opportunity to discuss my duties at the earliest possible moment. This Carter affair, for example.’
‘Gestapo business, not mine,’ Koenig said, pulling on his gloves. ‘I merely provided ground support.’
Meyer said, ‘A valuable field officer murdered, Carter allowed to get clean away, yet you took no hostages in Bellona. Exacted no reprisals.’
‘I’m a soldier, not a butcher,’ Koenig said. ‘If the distinction doesn’t appeal to you, take it up with the Field Marshal.’
‘There are perhaps others I could take it up with,’ Meyer replied calmly. ‘Reichsführer Himmler might well be interested in an officer of SS who expresses such sentiments.’
‘Then you must discuss it with him,’ Koenig said, ‘as I’m sure you will,’ and he went out of the entrance, down the steps and crossed to where Brandt waited for him behind the wheel of a kubelwagen.
Koenig smoked a cigarette as they drove down towards Palermo. Finally, he said, ‘Pull over, Rudi. I must walk for a while.’
Brandt turned in at the entrance of the Pellegrino cemetery and Koenig got out and walked through the gates between even lines of Cyprus trees.
He stood looking up at a white marble tomb with a life-size statue of Santa Rosalia of Pellegrino on top. Brandt moved in behind him.
Koenig said, ‘The most vulgar thing I’ve ever seen in my life.’
Brandt asked, ‘What happened back there?’
‘Oh, nothing much. They’ve hung a Major called Meyer from Himmler’s personal staff on my back, that’s all. The Field Marshal was very sorry, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.’
He reached into his pocket for matches and