Dulles then handed over to Kappler another series of photographs. All were mostly black with vaguely recognizable landmarks that were faintly lit by moonlight.
“These recon shots were taken at night.”
Kappler looked at Dulles, then asked, “The hydroelectric output from the dams—there were, I believe, a pair of five-thousand-kilowatt power plants . . .”
“Destroyed,” Dulles said.
“Then it is with no surprise that the valley,” Kappler said, his voice almost a whisper, “is completely without lights.”
“And will be until the hydroelectric power returns. Also not surprising, there are of course crews already working to repair them.”
Dulles passed another photograph. “The Eder dam also took hits.”
“That’s the largest masonry dam in Germany,” Kappler said. “Its reservoir holds more than twice that of the Möhne.”
Dulles nodded, then passed two more photographs.
“And also the Sorpe and Ennepe dams.”
As Kappler looked at them, Dulles said, “Because the overall success of the mission will be a great morale booster for the Allies, the story is going to be widely reported beginning tomorrow.” He gestured toward the Braun radio. “Landessender Beromünster, for example, will break the news in German and, using BBC reports, also in English. And it will run—with a map but not these photographs—in England’s newspapers and in every other newspaper we can get to publish it.”
He pulled from the envelope a copy of the Berner Zeitung.
“This is an early copy of tomorrow’s edition,” Dulles said.
Kappler took the Berner Zeitung and glanced at the front page. The largest headline read in German: BOMBERS DESTROY STRATEGIC GERMAN DAMS.
Dulles went on: “We also have prepared leaflets to drop in German-occupied countries reporting that the taking out of the dams has caused widespread panic. That there’s no water available for anything from drinking to fighting fires should the Allies follow up with an incendiary attack. That without the electricity generated by the dam’s power plant, homes are dark and industries idle. That there is hysteria over what little water remains being tainted and causing deadly diseases.”
Wolfgang Kappler crossed himself again.
He said, “When Fritz Thyssen quietly fled Germany with his wife, daughter, son-in-law, and grandson in September of 1939, the rest of us who had even considered leaving were stuck. Now, at least thank God that my wife and daughter have been staying in our Berlin home. Otherwise . . .”
Dulles said, “What if I said we could get your wife and daughter out?”
Kappler stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head.
“Danke schön, meine freund,” Kappler said softly. “Let me think about that. But my first reaction is no, because that would not stop Hitler, not stop the madness. And, also, because my son—SS-Obersturmbannführer Oskar Kappler, who is second in command in Sicily—he would then be hunted down and hung by wire from a meat hook.”
Dulles nodded.
Kappler took a sip of cognac as he looked into the flames and considered his next thought.
He swallowed, then inhaled deeply and exhaled audibly.
“Well, then,” he went on, his words measured, “so I have just had one of my companies stolen from me. I have lost five plants—possibly more—to a bombing that Hitler believed was impossible. And Marty Bormann has threatened to nationalize all the rest of my properties.”
He turned and looked for a long moment at Dulles, then continued: “And the companies you helped me set up in the Americas now are essentially useless to me.
“As you and I have discussed time and again, Allen, I believe someone has to do something to stop the madness—the destruction of lives, of property, of our very souls—before nothing is left of Germany but rubble. Up until now, I simply had to play the good German, running my companies as required. I cannot complain about that; my family and I live a very comfortable life. But conditions have gravely changed to a point where in good conscience I cannot continue the charade.”
“I understand,” Dulles said.
“Do you?” Kappler challenged. “I must tell you that it took me a long time to understand, to truly understand. And because of that I stand before you”—he looked up toward the high ceiling, gesturing grandly with his right hand—“and before our Almighty God deeply ashamed.”
He paused, then met Dulles’s eyes.
“Now I am desperate. I am tired of being held hostage, tired of being forced to participate in an evilness that no God-fearing man should. I often feel as trapped as those pitiful sklavenarbeiter.