That told Canaris that Student was fully aware that the success or failure of Operation Oak was a second chance for him. If he were able to carry it off, he could again bask in the Führer’s approval. However, if he failed, he could count on being sent to the Eastern Front—if he was lucky. Hitler had stripped other general officers he thought had failed him of their ranks, their medals, and even their pensions.
Max stopped the car before the entrance. Canaris was out of it before the guard could trot up to open the door for him.
The officers in Canaris’s far-from-opulent outer office rose as Canaris walked in. Including General Kurt Student, which Canaris found interesting, as he was junior to the parachute troops general.
I think he knows he needs me.
As indeed he does.
Canaris acknowledged only Student. He said, “Heil Hitler,” gave a somewhat sloppy Nazi salute, then offered his hand.
“Good morning, General,” he said. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Student smiled and made an It doesn’t matter gesture. Canaris motioned Student toward the door to his office and gestured for the others to follow. He waved Student into the chair at one end of a long, somewhat battered conference table. He took the seat at the opposite end.
Without being invited, SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg sat down beside Student. The other men in the room—a major and a lieutenant, both Fallschirmtruppe officers, and an enormous Waffen-SS captain—came to attention.
“Please be seated,” Canaris said, pointing to the chairs around as General von Wachtstein, Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching, and Oberstleutnant Gehlen entered the office. Von Wachtstein took a seat beside Canaris and von und zu Waching took one across from him.
“In a moment, Frau Dichter will bring us what is supposed to be coffee and then we can start talking about Operation Oak,” Canaris said. He paused. “General Student, I don’t know these gentlemen.”
The Waffen-SS captain leapt to his feet and barked, “SS-Hauptsturmführer Skorzeny, Herr Admiral, of SS Special Unit Friedenthal.”
Canaris nodded at Skorzeny, then made a somewhat impatient wave of his hand telling him to sit down. The parachute officers were now standing at attention. Canaris waved at them to sit down.
“Admiral,” Student said, pointing as he spoke, “these gentlemen are Major Harald Moors and Leutnant Otto von Berlepsch.”
“Actually, the leutnant is Leutnant Count Otto von Berlepsch,” von Deitzberg said.
“Is he really?” Canaris asked, dryly sarcastic.
Tell you what, Baron von Deitzberg: You and Count von Berlepsch put on your suits of armor, and General Student and I will help you get on your horses. Feel free to stand on our backs as you do so.
The anger came quickly and unexpectedly and was immediately regretted for two reasons: Coming close to losing his temper with von Deitzberg approached stupidity, for one. For another, the looks of contempt on both von Berlepsch’s and Generalmajor Count von Wachtstein’s faces showed they were as contemptuous of von Deitzberg’s evoking of the Almanach de Gotha as he was.
“As of one o’clock this morning,” Canaris announced, “the Carabinieri were completing their plans to move Mussolini from the Isle of Ponza to the Campo Imperatore Hotel in the Apennine mountain range, some eighty miles northeast of Rome. The Carabinieri have arranged for patrol torpedo boats to move him and his guard to the mainland. I don’t know where on the mainland, and I don’t know when the move will take place—probably not tomorrow, but early in the morning of the day after tomorrow.”
“Admiral, you’re sure of your intelligence?” General Student asked.
That wasn’t a challenge. He is just making sure.
Canaris nodded.
“If we could find out where they are going to land him on the mainland, we could free Il Duce en route to the Campo Imperatore,” von Deitzberg said.
“How would you do that?” Canaris asked evenly.
“I don’t think that Hauptsturmführer Skorzeny, Herr Admiral, and his SS Special Unit Friedenthal would have any difficulty in freeing Il Duce from
any Italian unit,” von Deitzberg said.
“How much do you know about the Carabinieri, von Deitzberg?” Student asked softly.
“They’re Italian, aren’t they? And haven’t we all learned that whatever else our former Italian allies might be good at—making wine, for example—they are not very good at making war?”
“Forgive me, von Deitzberg, but I have to disagree,” Student said. “You’ve heard, I’m sure, that one should never underestimate one’s enemy.”
“Are you suggesting, Herr General,” von Deitzberg challenged, “that a unit—a special unit, such as the Special Unit Friedenthal of the Waffen-SS—is not superior to any Italian unit?”