The Spymasters (Men at War 7)

It is damn difficult even when you’ve seen the photographs. . . .

Kappler noticed that she held her hands together nervously. Then he saw that she held a very tightly folded sheet of paper.

“Have you seen this?” she said somewhat hesitantly, fumbling as she unfolded the sheet.

He looked at the paper she held out. It appeared to be some kind of mass-produced flyer.

“These began showing up here two days ago,” she said. “I found this one on the floor of the ladies’ toilets.”

Kappler took the sheet and read it.

These must be what Allen Dulles said were going to be air-dropped.

“Is there any truth to what it says?” she said. “Are the Americans making those kind of advances?”

He looked up at her and said, “You do realize the grave danger of possessing something like this should the Gestapo find it? Or even Höss?”

She nodded. “And that would suggest that it’s true. If it were lies, they would not care that we have it.”

Kappler looked at her a long moment.

> It is evident in her eyes. She does indeed still mourn the loss of her son.

As would I if something were to happen to Oskar.

Kappler nodded and said, “From what I understand, yes. They actually were British bombers. Thousands died when the floodwater escaped the dams. There is limited water. And without the dams’ hydroelectric plant, there is no power for what homes and industries do remain.”

“They said something like this could never happen, that it was impossible.”

“Yes, they did.”

“Just as they said we would not fail at Leningrad,” she added bitterly.

Kappler made a face that he hoped looked sympathetic.

How many mothers must feel as she does?

“All lies this Hitler tells,” she then said. “If the impossible has happened, then it could happen again. And that means the bombings . . .”

He nodded. “They could mean the beginning of the end.”

Which very well could explain the desperate production rate of high explosive and nerve gas for this Special Program. . . .

[TWO]

Palermo, Sicily

0820 31 May 1943

“Ciao, Antonio,” Dick Canidy said, aiming his pistol at the two-hundred-pound five-foot-five Sicilan lying on his back on the grimy couch. Antonio Buda’s olive skin was coarse from a lifetime of wind and sea and sun exposure. He wore dirty denim overalls that fit tightly, bulging at his rolls of belly fat.

Wide-eyed, Antonio immediately let loose of the wine bottle neck as he held up his hands chest-high, palms out. The empty bottle clunked on the raw stone floor.

“Sit up,” Canidy said, taking a step back and gesturing with the pistol.

Antonio swung his feet to the floor, then keeping his left hand up at chest level, used his right hand to push his massive body to the sitting position.

As he brought his right hand back up, he leaned slightly forward—and experienced an intense episode of flatulence. It went on deeply and loudly before finally ending.