THE DOUBLE AGENTS.

by W.E.B. GRIFFIN AND WILLIAM E. BUTTERWORTH IV.

It is no use saying,"We are doing our best."You have got to succeed in doingwhat is necessary.-Prime Minister Winston S. Churchill.

When you get to the endof your rope,tie a knot, and hang on.-President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

THE DOUBLE AGENTS.

[ONE].

Schutzstaffel Provisional Headquarters Messina, Sicily 0810 26 March 1943 "You'd very likely be shot for saying such a thing," SS Standartenfuhrer Julius Schrader said.

SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Oskar Kappler-an athletic thirty-two-year-old, tall and trim, with a strong chin, intelligent blue eyes, and a full head of closely cropped light brown hair-did not trust his voice to reply. The lieutenant colonel stood stiffly and simply stared at the colonel, a pale-skinned portly thirty-five-year-old of medium height who kept his balding head cleanly shaven.

"Of all people, my friend, this you should understand," Schrader added.

Taking care not to spill coffee from the fine porcelain china cup that he carried on its saucer, the Standartenfuhrer rose slowly from his high-backed leather chair, then moved out from behind the polished marble-topped wooden desk that dominated the large office.

Kappler's eyes followed Schrader as he walked across the floor, also highly polished stone, past oversize portraits of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels-the images of the Nazi Germany leader and his propaganda minister struck Kappler as more oafish than inspiring-and over to one of the half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy burgundy-colored drapes pulled back to either side.

Sipping from his cup, Schrader looked out at the busy Port of Messina and, five kilometers distant across the Strait of Messina, to the toe of the boot that was mainland Italy. The morning sun painted the coast and rising hills in golden hues and turned the surface of the emerald green sea to shimmering silver.

Schrader sighed, then added pointedly but softly: "Or, perhaps worse, you would be sent to suffer a slow death in a concentration camp."

Both men-Nazi officers in the Sicherheitsdienst, known as the SD, the intelligence arm of the Schutzstaffel, also called the SS-knew far more about that than they wished. Punishment for anything less than total commitment to der Fuhrer der Fuhrer and the success of his Third Reich was swift and brutal. And they both personally had witnessed incidents in which those merely suspected of being suspicious-civilians and soldiers alike-had been summarily shot or shipped off to spend their final days toiling in the death camps. and the success of his Third Reich was swift and brutal. And they both personally had witnessed incidents in which those merely suspected of being suspicious-civilians and soldiers alike-had been summarily shot or shipped off to spend their final days toiling in the death camps.

For those so sentenced, a bullet served as the far better option, even if self-administered...as it sometimes was.

Obersturmbannfuhrer Kappler wanted to speak but found it hard to control his voice so that it did not waver.

Schrader surveyed the port. Cargo vessels flying the flags of Germany and Italy were moored at the long docks, loading and unloading, the cranes and ships creating long, defined shadows in the low angle of the sun.

At anchor inside the sickle-shaped harbor were warships-two aging destroyers and a heavy cruiser of the Regina Marina, Regina Marina, the latter easily twenty years old-from the Third Division of the Italian navy. the latter easily twenty years old-from the Third Division of the Italian navy.

Schrader thought, The ships look beautiful in the morning light, but the fact is, the merchant vessels have been weeks late getting here. Supply to all of our ports in Sicily-especially those in the south and far west-has been getting slower. Food, munitions, everything. The ships look beautiful in the morning light, but the fact is, the merchant vessels have been weeks late getting here. Supply to all of our ports in Sicily-especially those in the south and far west-has been getting slower. Food, munitions, everything.

And the Regina Marina Regina Marina treats us like some kind of stepchild, providing only weak, aging vessels for our protection. treats us like some kind of stepchild, providing only weak, aging vessels for our protection.

It is hard not to agree with my old friend...though I dare not say it.

Schrader, still looking out the window, stated in a matter-of-fact tone: "We go back very far, Oskar. I have always supported you. Yet I must strongly counsel you not to continue with such talk and will, even at great risk to myself for not reporting it, ignore that you ever said anything of the kind."

He turned to glance at Kappler. He saw him looking off into the distance, slowly shaking his head in frustration if not defiance.

Kappler cleared his throat, swallowed-and found his voice.

"Juli," he began softly but with determination, "I, of course, have always appreciated everything that you have done for me. And I certainly value your counsel. But..."

Schrader held up his hand, palm outward, in a gesture that said Stop Stop.

"But nothing," he said. "You will serve here as ordered, as will I, and we will honor the Fuhrer and the Fatherland. Period."

Kappler looked at his friend, who for the last year also had been his superior in the SS office in Messina. Their friendship dated back a dozen years, to when they had been teammates on the university polo team in Berlin. Schrader, then in far better shape, had held the key position of number four player while Kappler had been number three.

Then as now, Kappler knew Schrader expected him to follow his lead.

"But, Juli, I have heard from sources in Berlin that Hitler will not be able to defend Sicily adequately. With his focus on fronts of higher strategic value-France, Russia, others-he cannot afford to send the forces necessary to do so. And when that is realized by the Italian military-who some say would just as well fight against us, which is to say not fight any invasion-we'll be left to defend this pathetic island alone. We'll be overrun."

He walked over to the window and stood beside Schrader.

"Take a closer look out there, Juli," Kappler said, making a dramatic sweep with his arm. "What do you see? A tired old city-no, not even that-a tired old town that has been neglected by its own people. And what has Mussolini done for Messina? Same that he's done for all of Sicily: nothing but promise after promise, all of them empty. Yet here the Sicilians sit, so close that they can almost reach out and touch the shore of Italy-and its riches."

He paused, then pointed to the northwest, where the low masonry buildings at the edge of the city gave way to much-lesser structures-fashioned of really no more than rusted corrugated tin and other salvaged metal and wood scraps-near the foothills.

"And there," Kappler went on, his tone of voice becoming stronger. "Those shanties. Do you think that any one of the tens of thousands in those miserable conditions have any reason to fight for Mussolini? No. Of course not. Nor does the average Sicilian feel loyalty to him. And certainly not the real leaders, the members of the Mafia-many of whom, you will recall, you and I helped Il Duce Il Duce imprison. They feel exactly the opposite. They despise Mussolini." He paused. "They despise imprison. They feel exactly the opposite. They despise Mussolini." He paused. "They despise us. us."

Schrader made a humph humph sound and shrugged. sound and shrugged.

"What do you expect?" he said. "This is war-"

"But," Kappler interrupted, "you would think that we're an occupying force. We're not. These people do not know-or choose not to acknowledge-that we're fighting on the same side, Juli."

He let that statement set in, then added: "If you do not agree, then answer this: How do we go about ensuring their allegiance?"

He looked at his friend. When finally there was no answer, only silence, he answered the question himself: "We do it with threats, Juli, with coercion and fear. Just as you and I fear being found not to be in complete and total lockstep with"-he made a wave of disgust with his hand toward the portraits on the wall-"the high party and its ideals."

Schrader looked at Kappler, then at his coffee cup, and drained it.

"This is complete nonsense," Schrader said. "I have been given no intelligence that says-"

"Do you really believe that they would tell tell you that? From what I hear, no one tells the Fuhrer anything that the Fuhrer does not want to hear. His temper is legendary." you that? From what I hear, no one tells the Fuhrer anything that the Fuhrer does not want to hear. His temper is legendary."

Schrader snorted. "So it is said. I would not wish to have been the unfortunate one who had to report the news last month of von Paulus's defeat."

Kappler nodded solemnly.

The Wehrmacht had been dealt a devastating blow by the Russian Red Army. Field Marshal Friedrich von Paulus and his Sixth German Army-strung out too far while battling a wicked Stalingrad winter-had been damn near obliterated.

It was a loss that even now Hitler had not come completely to comprehend-quite possibly could not, considering that people were prone to report that which would keep them alive...not necessarily that which the Fuhrer needed to hear.

"Precisely," Kappler said. "And apparently that temper is worsening with his misfortunes of war. First, he basically loses North Africa and-worse-refuses to concede it. Now, mere months later, this travesty in Stalingrad. What makes you think he is even thinking of Sicily? Maybe he's more concerned about Corsica and Sardinia. They're closer to the mainland. If I were him, I would pull back and protect against mainland invasions closer to home-particularly ones from the east and west-battles that I can win." He exhaled audibly. "Not save some island."

He looked at Schrader, who returned the look but said nothing.

Kappler then quietly offered: "You know there have been attempts on Hitler's life."

"Rumors," Schrader snapped.

Kappler nodded and said, "Possibly. But credible ones. He's weakening."

Schrader stared at Kappler, looking in his eyes for something that he feared Kappler might be holding back from saying.

Schrader knew the Kapplers were an old family well connected in Dortmund-and thus well connected at high levels in Berlin thanks to Oskar's industrialist grandfather's steel mill in Ruhrpott, the Ruhr Valley, supplying critical materials to the war effort-and Kappler could very well have access to quiet information that Schrader never would.

"Only a fool would try to assassinate him," Schrader finally said, reasonably.

"Only a fool would try and fail. and fail."

Schrader stiffened and with a raised voice said, "You're not suggesting-?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, Juli," he said evenly. "I am saying, however, that there appear to be real cracks in Hitler's grand plan. And that wise men make their own plans for different courses of action."

Schrader walked wordlessly over to the desk, took a deep breath and exhaled, then picked up the carafe from the sterling silver coffee service at the front edge of the desk. He gestured with it, offering Kappler a cup.

"Sure you won't have some?" he asked, his voice now casual, and after Kappler shook his head Schrader shrugged and poured himself a fresh cup.

"Different courses of action," Schrader said conversationally. "What does this mean?"

"Just look at what Hitler has sent us to prepare for a possible invasion. Not men, not materiel. No, he has left us Il Duce Il Duce's tired army to fight with our own thin forces."

As Schrader absently stirred three spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee, he said, "There is no reason we could not get additional reinforcements."

Kappler made a sour face.

"Come now, Juli. The German forces have only so many men and we're losing what we have at a growing rate. If Hitler were planning to reinforce Sicily, why would he have us overseeing Sturmbannfuhrer Muller's work? And let me remind you what that professor from the university in Palermo said: that such weapons do not discriminate. That they are as likely to kill us as they are any enemy."

Schrader made eye contact, pursed his lips, and nodded. He returned to his leather chair, sat, and sipped at his coffee slowly and thoughtfully.

He knew that Kappler was of course privy to all of the secret SS operations on Sicily and that these included Muller and the plans for chemical and biological weapons.

For one, Kappler was the supervising officer of the SS major-Hans Muller, a high-strung twenty-eight-year-old with a violent temper matching, if not surpassing, that of Hitler-who was in charge of the Palermo SS field office and its operations.

Near Palermo, in an ancient seaside villa, the SS was advancing the Nazi experimentation-begun in the Dachau concentration camp-of injecting Sicilian prisoners with extract from mosquito mucous glands to keep alive a strain of yellow fever. That was to say, until the sickened hosts died of malaria. Then new hosts-often members of the Mafia brought in from the penal colonies that had been established on tiny outer islands just north of Sicily-were infected with the disease that the SS had imported.

For another, Kappler was aware-although Muller as yet was not-that shipments had begun of crates labeled SONDERKART.6LE.F.H.18 T83 SONDERKART.6LE.F.H.18 T83 that contained 10.5cm howitzer shells. These were not the usual that contained 10.5cm howitzer shells. These were not the usual ack-ack ack-ack antiaircraft munitions for firing from the Nazi's light field howitzers. These rounds contained the chemical agent code-named T83 that attacked the human central nervous system. antiaircraft munitions for firing from the Nazi's light field howitzers. These rounds contained the chemical agent code-named T83 that attacked the human central nervous system.

Commonly called Tabun, the German-developed chemical was one of the easiest to produce on a massive scale and was efficient to a horrific level. Mostly odorless and colorless, it quickly caused its victims to have convulsions, restricted breathing, triggered loss of bowel control-and, ultimately, loss of heartbeat.

Death by Tabun was relatively swift...but intensely painful and gruesome.

Kappler knew that Muller was not aware of the Tabun munitions, nor that a first shipment was already in the Port of Palermo, aboard a cargo ship, mixed in with other military goods and listed on the manifest, more or less innocuously, by its code name.

Muller did not know because Kappler had decided not to tell him until he thought it was necessary to do so.

In short, Kappler had told Schrader, he did not trust the hothead with knowledge-let alone control-of such a powerful weapon and Schrader quietly had concurred.

After a moment, Kappler asked, "What do you have to say about that, Juli?"

Schrader leaned back in the leather chair, staring at the coffee cup, and with an index finger slowly rotated the cup on the saucer as he considered it all.

How do I agree, Schrader thought, Schrader thought, without encouraging Oskar to take one step too far, to act on a "different course" perhaps too soon? without encouraging Oskar to take one step too far, to act on a "different course" perhaps too soon?

He sighed.

"I will allow that what you say is conceivable-" he began.

"Ach du leiber Gott!" Kappler flared. Dramatically, he raised his hands heavenward, palms up, and looked upward, as if seeking divine input. "Of course it is, Juli! And that is why I speak of this with you, my friend, so that wise men can make plans, not just be left twisting in the wind...a deadly, contaminated wind." Kappler flared. Dramatically, he raised his hands heavenward, palms up, and looked upward, as if seeking divine input. "Of course it is, Juli! And that is why I speak of this with you, my friend, so that wise men can make plans, not just be left twisting in the wind...a deadly, contaminated wind."

Standartenfuhrer Julius Schrader looked exasperated.

"Yes, yes, Oskar. So you have said. Yet you have not shared with me what these different courses of action might be."

Kappler approached the desk, then went to the coffee service and poured himself a cup. He started to pick up the cup, then, for some reason, decided otherwise.

He buried his face in the palms of his hands, his fingertips massaging his temples. After a moment, he removed his hands, looked at Schrader, and quietly said, "I have also heard-from trusted sources other than those I have mentioned-that there are certain members of the SS who are setting up routes to safety should we not win this war. Routes for them, for their loved ones. And then there are other routes, ones that set aside their funds."

Schrader stared into Kappler's eyes. After a long moment, his eyebrows went up.

"Yes," Schrader said. "I have heard of that, too."

Schrader leaned forward and placed his cup and saucer on the desktop. The fine clink clink that the porcelain made as it touched the polished marble seemed to echo in the silence of the large room. that the porcelain made as it touched the polished marble seemed to echo in the silence of the large room.

"I have also heard," Schrader said, his tone quiet, his words measured, "that those caught making such plans-or even suspected of such-are being charged with treason...and so are being dealt with in a vicious fashion. And if you and I have heard of this 'planning,' then no doubt it is known to-"

There was a faint rap at the door and both men turned quickly-and more than a little nervously-toward it.

The massive, dark wooden door slowly swung open just enough for a boyish-looking young man-easily a teenager-in the uniform of an Italian naval ensign to step through. He stood at an awkward attention and saluted stiffly.

Kappler noticed that the ensign's uniform was mussed, that he had a crudely shorn haircut, and that his eyes appeared to be without thought.

He doesn't look old enough to shave, Kappler thought as he and Schrader absently returned the salute. Kappler thought as he and Schrader absently returned the salute. He looks, in fact, like a very simple boy, one plunked off a farm...or maybe out of the shanties...and stuck in the first sailor suit they could find, never mind the fit or lack thereof. He looks, in fact, like a very simple boy, one plunked off a farm...or maybe out of the shanties...and stuck in the first sailor suit they could find, never mind the fit or lack thereof.

"Herr Standartenfuhrer?" the young ensign said tentatively. the young ensign said tentatively.

"I am Standartenfuhrer Schrader," Schrader said with what Kappler thought was a touch too much authority. "Where is Tentente de Benedetto?"