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No time for that, not now for he was aware of the sound of vehicles approaching on the road, very fast. He went lurching down the steps, picked up the bicycle and hurriedly retraced his steps through the garden to the rear gate.
He reached the shelter of the pine trees below the villa, turned in time to see a truck and two kubelwagens appear on the main road above him. Carter didn’t wait to see what would happen, simply pushed on through the trees until he came to the woodcutter’s track that ran all the way down through the forest to Bellona. Just enough light to see by if he was lucky. He flung a leg over the broken leather saddle of the old bicycle and rode away.
There wasn’t a great deal to remember of that ride. The trees crowding in on either side, deepening the evening gloom, the rush of the heavy rain. It was rather like being on the kind of monumental drunk where, afterwards, only occasional images surface.
He opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back, the rain falling on his upturned face, in a ditch on the edge of the village, the bicycle beside him.
The pain of the gunshot wound was intense now, worse than he would have believed possible. There was no sign of the shotgun and he forced himself to his feet and stumbled along the track through the swiftly falling darkness.
The smell of wood smoke hung on the damp air and a dog barked hollowly in the distance, but otherwise there was no sign of life except for the occasional light in a window. And yet there were people up there, watching from behind the shutters, waiting.
He made it across the main square, pausing at the fountain in the centre to put his head under the jet of cold water that gushed from the mouth and nostrils of a bronze dryad, continued past the church and turned into a narrow side street. There was an entrance to a courtyard a few houses along, barred by an oaken gate, a blue lamp above it. The sign painted on the wall in ornate black letters read Vito Barbera – Mortician.
A small judas gate stood next to the main door. Carter leaned against it and pulled the bell chain. There was silence for a while and he held on to the grille with one hand, staring up at the rain falling in a silver spray through the lamplight. A footstep sounded inside and the grille opened.
Barbera said, ‘What is it?’
‘Me, Vito.’
‘Harry, is that you?’ Barbera said, this time in the kind of English that came straight from the Bronx. ‘Thank God. I thought they must have lifted you.’
He opened the judas gate and Carter stepped inside. ‘A damn near-run thing, Vito, just like Waterloo,’ he said and fainted.
Carter surfaced slowly and found himself looking up at a cracked plaster ceiling. It was very cold and there was a heavy, medicinal smell to everything that he soon recognized as formaldehyde. He was lying on one of the tables in the mortuary preparation room, his neck pillowed on a wooden block, his stomach and chest expertly bandaged.
He turned his head and found Barbera, wearing a long rubber apron, working on the corpse of an old man at the next table. Carter pushed himself up.
Barbera said cheerfully, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. He shot you twice. The one in the side went straight through, but the second is somewhere in the left lung. You’ll need a top surgeon.’
‘Thanks a million,’ Carter said. ‘That really does make me feel a whole lot better.’
On the trolley beside Barbera were the tools of the embalmer’s trade laid out neatly on a white cloth: forceps, scalpels, surgical needles, artery tubes and a glass jar containing a couple of gallons of embalming fluid.
There was a look of faint surprise on the corpse’s face that many people show in death, jaw dropped, mouth gaping as if in astonishment that this could be happening. Barbera took a long curved needle and passed it from behind the lower lip, up through the nasal septum and down again so that when he tightened the thread and tied it off, the jaw was lifted.
‘So you raise people from the dead, too?’ Carter eased himself off the table. ‘I always knew you were a man of parts.’
Barbera smiled, a small, intense-looking man of fifty whose tangled iron-grey beard appeared strangely at odds with the Bronx accent.
‘You fucking English, Harry! I mean, when are you going to learn? The days of Empire are over. What were you trying to do up there, win the war on your own?’
‘Something like that.’
The door opened and a young girl entered. Sixteen or seventeen, no more. Small, dark-haired with a ripe, full body that strained at the seams of the old cotton dress. She had a wide mouth, dark brown eyes in a face of considerable character and yet there was the impression of one who had seen too much of life at its worst too early.
She carried a tray containing an old brass coffee pot, brown sugar and glasses. There was also a bottle of cognac – Courvoisier.
Barbera carried on working. ‘Rosa, this is Major Carter. My niece, arrived from Palermo since you were last here.’
‘Rosa,’ Carter said.
She poured coffee and handed it to him without a word.
Barbera said, ‘Good girl. Now go back to the gate and watch the square. Anything – anything at all, you let me know.’
She went out and Carter poured himself a brandy, sipping it slowly for the pain in his lung was so intense that he could hardly breathe. ‘I never knew you had a niece. How old is she?’
‘Oh, a hundred and fifty, or sixteen. Take your pick. Her father was my youngest brother. Killed in an auto accident in ’thirty-seven in Naples. I lost sight of his wife. She died of consumption in Palermo three years ago.’
‘And Rosa?’
‘I only heard about her two months ago through Mafia friends in Palermo. She’s been a street whore since she was thirteen. I figured it was time she came home.’
‘You still think of this place as home after Tenth Avenue?’
‘Oh, sure, no regrets. Something Rosa can’t understand. New York is still the promised land to her, whereas to me, it was somewhere to leave.’
He was working cream into the old man’s face now, touching the cheeks with rouge.
Carter said, ‘What about the Contessa?’
‘The Gestapo took her to Palermo.’
‘Bad for you if they break her.’
‘Not possible.’ Barbera shook his head. ‘A friend passed her a cyanide capsule in the women’s prison yesterday afternoon.’
Carter took a long, shuddering breath to steady his nerves. ‘I was hoping she’d have news for me of Luca.’
Barbera paused and glanced at him in some surprise. ‘You waste your time. No one has news of Luca because that is the way he wants it.’
‘Mafia again?’
‘Yes, my friend, Mafia again and you would do well to remember that. What are your plans?’
‘I was supposed to go to Agrigento tonight. I’m due to put to sea with a tuna boat out of Porto Stefano at midnight.’
‘Submarine pick-up?’
‘That’s it.’
Barbera frowned thoughtfully. ‘I don’t see how, Harry, not tonight. The roads will be crawling with Krauts. Maybe tomorrow.’ He gestured to the corpse. ‘I’ve got to take the old boy here down to Agrigento anyway.’
Before Carter could reply, the door burst open and Rosa looked in. They are here in the square. Many Germans.’ Barbera moved to the window and parted the curtain slightly. Carter struggled up with difficulty and limped to join him. Several vehicles had pulled up in the square, kubelwagens and troop carriers and two armoured cars. Soldiers had gathered in a semi-circle and were being addressed from the back of a field car by an officer.
Carter said, ‘SS paratroopers. Where in the hell did they come from?’
‘The mainland last month. Specially selected by Kesselring to clear the mountains of partisans. The one doing the talking is their commanding officer, Major Koenig. He’s good. They call him the Hunter in the Cammarata.’
As they watched, the SS broke away to commence searching the village. Koenig sat down and his kubelwagen started across the square, followed by another.
Barbera closed the curtain. ‘Looks as if he’s coming this way.’ He turned to Carter. ‘Did you leave anybody dead up there at the villa, by any chance?’
‘Probably.’ Carter caught him by the sleeve. ‘He’ll take it out on the village if I don’t turn up.’
Barbera smiled sadly. ‘Not his style. Very definitely a man of honour. Makes it difficult to stick a knife in his back. Now you stay here with Rosa and keep quiet.’
He took the lamp and went out, leaving them in darkness.
They were already knocking at the outer gate as he crossed the courtyard. He eased back the massive bolt and the gate swung open to reveal the first kubelwagen, Koenig seated beside the driver. He got out and moved forward.
‘Ah, there you are, Signor Barbera. I’ve brought some custom for you, I’m afraid,’ he said in fair Italian.
The two kubelwagens drove into the courtyard. Barbera saw that there was a body strapped to a stretcher on one of them and covered with a blanket.
Two SS ran round to lift it down and Barbera said, ‘If you’d follow me, Major.’
He crossed the courtyard and led the way in through a short passage. When he opened the door at the end, there was the taint of death on the air.
The room which he entered was quiet, a single oil lamp on a table in the centre the only light. It was a waiting mortuary of a type common in Sicily. There were at least a dozen coffins, each one open and containing a corpse, fingers entwined in a pulley arrangement that stretched overhead to an old brass bell by the door.
Koenig entered behind him. His NCO’s field cap was an affectation of some of the old timers, silver death’s head badge glinting in the lamplight. The scarlet and black ribbon of the Knight’s Cross made a brave show at his throat. He wore a leather greatcoat which had seen long service and paratroopers’ jumpboots. He lit a cigarette, pausing just inside the door, and flicked a finger against the bell which echoed eerily.
‘Has it ever rung?’
‘Frequently,’ Barbera said. ‘Limbs behave strangely as they stiffen in death. If what the Major means is has anyone returned to life, that, too. A girl of twelve and on another occasion, a man of forty. Both revived after death had been pronounced. That, after all, is the purpose of these places.’
‘You Sicilians seem to me to have an excessive preoccupation with death,’ Koenig said.
‘Not to the extent that we are excited by the idea of being buried alive.’
From the preparation room, peering through the crack in the door, Carter leaned against Rosa, fighting the pain, and watched them place the stretcher on a table and uncover Schäfer, the feldpolizei sergeant. The face was streaked with blood, the eyes staring. Barbera closed them with a practised movement.
‘Sergeant Schäfer was a good man,’ Koenig said. ‘I need hardly point out that it would be most unfortunate for anyone found harbouring the man who did this.’
Barbera said, ‘What would you like me to do with him, Major?’
‘Clean him up and deliver him to Geheimefeldpolizei headquarters in Agrigento.’
Barbera covered Schäfer with the blanket again. ‘I have a previous engagement tomorrow. The family of the Contessa di Bellona wish me to fetch her body from the women’s prison in Palermo. A matter of some delicacy.’
‘Understandably,’ Koenig said.
‘In the circumstances, I had intended taking another corpse down to Agrigento tonight. See, in here.’
He moved to the door of the preparation room, opened it and led the way in, holding the lamp high so that Koenig could see the corpse of the old man. In the darkness of the rear cupboard, Carter slumped against Rosa and her arms tightened about him.
‘I could take Sergeant Schäfer at the same time,’ Barbera said. ‘Of course, I would need a pass. Major. I presume your men will be active on all roads tonight.’
He followed Koenig out and Carter waited there in the dark, the pain in his lung like a living thing. God, he thought, perhaps I’m dying. He clutched desperately at the girl as if she was life itself, conscious of the softness of her flesh, her breasts tight against him.
He groaned, struggling to control the pain, and she fastened her mouth over his as if to hold the sound in, her tongue working furiously. In spite of the agony, his flesh reacted to her practised hands.
After a while she opened the door cautiously and led him out. Carter propped himself against one of the tables, aware of the sound of vehicles driving away down there in the courtyard.
‘What were you trying to do, kill me or cure me?’ he croaked.
She wiped sweat from his face with one of Barbera’s towels. ‘We have a saying, Colonel. There is the big death and then there is the small death which may be repeated many times. Which would you prefer?’
He stared down into that old-young face, but before he could reply Barbera came back, holding a piece of paper.
‘Signed by Major Koenig himself. Good for any road block between here and Agrigento. With luck, you should make that submarine after all.’
‘How?’ Carter said.
‘I wouldn’t dream of having a hearse without a hidden compartment. Comes in handy. Of course, you’ll be lying flat on your back with two corpses in coffins just inches above your nose, but I can guarantee you won’t smell a thing.’ He grinned. ‘Stick with me, old buddy and you’ll live for ever.’
3
The JU52 which flew in from Rome with Field Marshal Albert Kesselring landed at the Luftwaffe base at Punta Raisi outside Palermo just after nine in the morning. An hour later, he was at German Army headquarters in the old Benedictine Monastery near Monte Pellegrino, drinking coffee in the office of Major General Karl Walther who was temporarily in command.
‘Beautiful,’ Kesselring said, indicating the view. ‘Quite remarkable, and so is the coffee.’
‘Yemeni mocha.’ Walther poured him another cup. ‘We still manage some of the finer things in life here.’
‘We had some difficulty driving through the town. There seemed to be religious processions everywhere.’
‘Some sort of holy week. They hold them all the time. Everything grinds to a halt. They’re a very religious people.’
‘So it would appear,’ Kesselring said. ‘When one of the processions passed us I noticed a rather unusual feature. The Image of the Virgin they were carrying had a knife through its heart.’
‘Typically Sicilian,’ Walther replied. ‘The cult of death everywhere.’
Kesselring put down his cup. ‘All right, what have I got?’
‘There are eight this morning. All Iron Crosses. First Class, except for the two in whom the Field Marshal has a special interest.’
‘Let’s take a look.’
Walther opened the door and ushered him out onto a stone-flagged terrace, an ironwork grille between the pillars. Below in the courtyard eight men were drawn up.
‘Koenig on the far end,’ Herr Field Marshal Walther said. ‘The man next to him is Sturmscharführer Brandt.’
‘Who receives the Knight’s Cross?’
‘The third occasion that Koenig has put him forward.’
‘So,’ Kesselring nodded. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’
Major Max Koenig was twenty-six and looked ten years older. He had seen action in Poland, France and Holland and had transferred to the newly formed 21st SS Paratroop Battalion in time for the drop over Maleme airfield in Crete in 1941 where he was seriously wounded. Then came the Winter War in Russia. Two years of it and it showed: in the gold wound badge that said he’d been a casualty on five separate occasions; in the general air of weariness, the empty look in the dark eyes.
Except for the silver death’s head badge in his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all fallschirmjäger: flying blouse, jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots. On his left sleeve was the Kreta cuff title, proud badge of those who had spearheaded the invasion of Crete. The gold and silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification badge was pinned to his left breast beside the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves hung at his throat.
Standing at ease at the end of the line waiting to receive the Swords, he felt strangely indifferent and yet strove to find the right thing to say to Sergeant-Major Brandt for whom this was a moment of supreme importance.
‘So, Rudi,’ he whispered. ‘The great occasion at last.’
‘Thanks to you, Major,’ Brandt replied. He was an innkeeper’s son from the Austrian Tyrol, a small, wiry man who could climb all day with no need of rest. He and Koenig had been together for more than two years now.
There was a clatter of boots on the stone stairs as Kesselring and General Walther appeared and someone called the parade to attention.
It was a pleasant enough affair, for Kesselring was in good humour, full of his usual charm. He had a word for each man as he pinned on the ribbon. They responded well, as was only to be expected, for he was, after all, Commander-in-chief South and arguably one of the best half-dozen generals on either side during the Second World War.
They had reached Brandt now and Kesselring did a marvellous thing, throwing all distinctions of rank to one side, clapping Brandt on the shoulders and shaking him warmly by the hand before hanging the coveted cross around his neck.
‘My dear Brandt, a real pleasure, I assure you as one soldier to another, and long overdue.’
Brandt was overcome and Koenig was unable to keep a fleeting smile from his lips. A master stroke, but Kesselring knew how to handle men. Then the Field Marshal was standing in front of him, a slightly wry smile on his face as if he had noticed Koenig’s reaction and was asking him to bear with him.
‘What on earth can I say, Major? You are only the thirtieth recipient of the Swords since the award was created. Normally, our Führer himself would wish to decorate you personally, but these are extraordinary times. I can only say how delighted I am that the honour falls to me.’
He held Koenig by the shoulders for a moment and then, as if in a sudden excess of emotion, embraced him.
Later, back in Walther’s office having a cognac before lunch, Kesselring said, ‘A very impressive young man.’
‘He’s certainly that,’ Walther agreed.
‘Decent, honourable, chivalrous. A superb soldier. What every member of the Waffen SS would like to imagine himself to be. Let’s have him in and get it over with.’
Walther pressed a buzzer on his desk and a moment later an aide looked in.
‘Major Koenig,’ Walther said.
The aide withdrew and Koenig entered. He paused at the desk, clicked his heels, and his hand went to the peak of his fieldcap in a military salute.
The Field Marshal said, ‘Pull up a chair, Major, and sit down.’
Koenig did as he was told. Kesselring turned to the large-scale military map of Sicily on the wall. ‘I see you’ve applied for a transfer already.’
‘Yes, Herr Field Marshal.’
‘Well, it’s denied.’
‘May I be permitted to ask why?’
‘I could say because that silver plate they had to put in your skull after your last exploit in Russia makes you unsuitable for jumping out of aeroplanes any more. But I don’t need to. Your task here in Sicily is of vital importance.’
General Walther said, ‘There is still too much partisan activity here in the central mountains, particularly in the region of the Cammarata. It would be fatal to our interests in the event of an invasion.’
‘I thought the Allies intend to try Sardinia first, General?’ queried Koenig.
Walther and Kesselring glanced at each other and Kesselring laughed. ‘Go on, tell him. I don’t see why not.’
Walther said, ‘Actually, you’re not far wrong, Major. The high command in Berlin, the Führer himself, feel that Sardinia will be the invasion point.’
‘A few weeks ago, the body of a British courier was washed up on a Spanish beach,’ Kesselring went on. ‘A Royal Marine Major. He was carrying letters to General Alexander in Tunisia. There was another from Lord Louis Mountbatten to Sir Andrew Cunningham, Commander-in-Chief of the British Mediterranean Fleet. The gist of these letters indicates firmly that the target for the Allied invasion will be Sardinia and Greece. Any attack on Sicily will be diversionary.’
There was a heavy silence. General Walther said, ‘We’d be interested in your opinion. Feel free to speak.’
‘What can I say, Herr General.’ Koenig shrugged. ‘Miracles do occur on occasions, even in this day and age. Presumably this British Major’s being so conveniently washed up on a Spanish beach where our agents could have a sight of the letters he was carrying, was one of them.’
‘But on the whole,’ Kesselring said, ‘you don’t believe in miracles.’
‘Not since I stopped reading the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, Herr Field Marshal.’
‘Good.’ Kesselring was all business now. ‘Give me your personal assessment of the situation here.’
Koenig stood up and moved round to the map. ‘As regards partisan activity, two important groups. The Separatists, who want an independent Sicily, and the Communists. We all know what they want.
‘They 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.