Buzzini was still in the middle of his Italian breakfast, chewing a tiny sandwich and sipping ersatz espresso. At von Berg’s appearance, he coughed up his espresso. “General von Berg,” he said, standing up and wiping his small, petulant mouth. “This is most unexpected.”
“But so much more fun, Commandant,” von Berg replied, noting the rolls of fat quaking beneath the commandant’s tunic. The man was a disgrace to all men in uniform. “You have my mail?”
Buzzini shot a fiery glance at the helpless Racini, who had followed von Berg into the office. “The general’s cables from Berlin, Sergeant,” Buzzini ordered in his baritone voice. “Bring them to me.”
The ratlike Racini disappeared and returned with several dispatches. Buzzini took them from his aide and handed them to von Berg. “Anything else?” he asked politely, although von Berg could detect the rage bubbling beneath the surface of his dark, fleshy face.
Von Berg ignored him and moved to the window and quickly sorted through the various dispatches to learn what the Italians had seen. Mostly routine, except for a special order from the naval high command and an encoded signal from German minister Otto Carl Kocher in Switzerland.
“I’d like to be alone for a few minutes,” von Berg replied finally. “Could you wait outside?”
At that moment Franz entered the office with what looked like a small typewriter. He proceeded to clear the top of Buzzini’s desk and put down the Sonlar coding machine.
Buzzini turned red, his eyes flashing in anger and his loose jowls quivering. “This is an outrage, General. This is my office! I am the commandant of Corfu!”
“A commandant who can receive nothing except what is given him by the Reich, including this island,” von Berg responded. “And what is freely given to you can just as easily be taken away.”
Buzzini stared at him, livid. “General Vecchiarelli will hear of this, von Berg. Come, Sergeant.”
With that, Buzzini and his aide left the office, closing the door behind them.
Von Berg shook his head. The commandant had little reason to hope that his new boss, Vecchiarelli, would fare any better than his old boss, Geloso, the former commander of all Italian troops in Greece. Already plans had been drawn for the Germans to disarm and replace the Italian Eleventh Army in Greece and, if necessary, to occupy Italy. Operation Alarich, Hitler called it, after the fifth-century Teutonic conqueror of Rome.
Von Berg handed Franz the encoded signal from Switzerland. “Decode this,” he said, and turned his attention to the naval dispatch. He could always gauge Hitler’s reaction to his intelligence reports by the orders handed down through the various services. This one from the naval war staff confirmed that Hitler had rejected his stolen plans for the Sicily invasion and instead was sold on the idea that the Allies would be invading Greece. It was dated May 20 and labeled MOST
SECRET.
“Listen to this, Franz,” von Berg said, beginning to read the order aloud. “‘In the opinion of the naval war staff, the possibility of enemy landings in the eastern as well as the western Mediterranean must be reckoned with.’” He paused. “Now, that’s a novel thought.”
He skimmed several more paragraphs offering the revelation that the enemy would probably make an initial landing where there would be the least resistance and where the greatest results could be expected in the shortest time.
“‘Landing attempts are most likely to be made in the Greek west coast area, where the Corfu-Arta-Pyrgos region offers the greatest prospects of success,’” he continued. “‘The German admiral commanding the Aegean is ordered to take over control of the minefields the Italians are laying off the western coast of Greece. German coastal defense batteries also are to be set up in a territory under Italian control. German R-boats are to be sent from Sicily to the Aegean.’”
“Motor torpedo boats to Greece?” asked Franz, busy with the Sonlar. “For what purpose, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer?”
“To establish R-boat bases, command stations, naval sea patrol services, and other safeguards, now that almost the whole coast of Greece, as well as the Greek islands, are threatened.” Von Berg crumpled up the report. “No wonder Buzzini is so edgy. He doesn’t want German company, and neither do I at this point. With the Flammenschwert reaching the crucial assembly phase, the last thing we need is the attention that more divisions in Greece will attract from the Allies and Berlin.”
“I have it, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.” Franz held out the decoded signal, and when von Berg read it, he felt a sensation of surprise he hadn’t experienced in a long time. TO SS OBERSTGRUPPENFUHRER VON BERG,
PERSONAL. MOST SECRET. UNUSUAL ARRIVAL IN BERN MAY INTEREST YOU. CHRIS
Von Berg stared at the message, filled with a strange mixture of fear and excitement. Chris Andros, he thought. My God, you do exist after all.
For too long he had been haunted by the ghost of Andros, not because the man was any threat in himself-that remained to be seen-but because of Aphrodite. While he could remove a dagger from her lovely hand, he could not remove the poison from her blood: her love for this infidel. And just when he was on the brink of deposing Hitler, rescuing continental Europe, and establishing global peace, this devil Andros has chosen to surface in Bern after four years. Why now, of all times?
Franz cleared his throat. “Trouble, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer?”
“Perhaps, Franz.” Von Berg put the signal down on Buzzini’s desk and picked up the commandant’s coffee cup. He took a sip and frowned. Terrible stuff. No wonder the Italian was always in a bad mood. He put it down. “I need you to draft a signal for Bern.”
Franz stiffened to attention in his chair. “ Zu Befehl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”
Von Berg perceived Andros as a psychological threat to his control of Aphrodite and his plans, which he now began to see were intertwined. What was the use of being a sovereign without her? His mission suddenly lost its meaning. But how could that be if he didn’t believe in meaning? He pushed the thought out of his mind and began his dictation.
“‘To German minister Kocher, personal, most secret, et cetera,’” von Berg began with a wave of his hand. “‘Interested in Andros arrival. Would like to greet personally, see what business he has in Bern. Arrange proper reception in person of Agent Barracuda. Expect detailed report as soon as possible. Von Berg.’”
“No more, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer?”
“Not yet, Franz.” Von Berg stood at the window and looked out at the lush green spiniada of Corfu Town. “So, Herr Andros, you return. Let’s see what kind of a man you really are.”
1943
39
A ndros paid the cabdriver and walked up the steps of the venerable private banking firm of Gilbert amp; Co. It was in a small, austere building in Bern’s Old Town, its presence marked only by a discreet brass plaque set in the wall. A porter greeted Andros as he entered, asked him to state his business, and directed him to the second floor.
Andros ascended the stairs to a reception area leading to the private executive offices. Here a smiling mademoiselle, a blonde in a red cashmere sweater, took his Burberry raincoat. Her pale blue eyes seemed to linger in admiration of his athletic build beneath the three-piece suit. In the most exquisite French, she informed him that Monsieur Gilbert would see him in but a moment.