of closely cropped light brown hairdid 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 Standartenführer rose slowly from his high-backed
leather chair, then moved out from behind the polished marble-topped
wooden desk that dominated the large office.
Kapplers 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 inspiringand 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 ris-
2
W . E . B . G R I F F I N
ing 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 menNazi officers in the Sicherheitsdienst, known as the SD, the
intelligence arm of the Schutzstaffel, also called the SSknew far more about
that than they wished. Punishment for anything less than total commitment
to der Führer 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 suspiciouscivilians and soldiers alikehad 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.
Obersturmbannführer 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 warshipstwo aging
destroyers and a heavy cruiser of the Regina Marina, the latter easily twenty
years oldfrom 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 Sicilyespecially those in the south and far westhas been getting
slower. Food, munitions, everything.
And the Regina Marina 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 my-
self 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 dis-
tance, slowly shaking his head in frustration if not defiance.
T H E D O U B L E A G E N T S
3
Kappler cleared his throat, swallowedand 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 .
But nothing, he said. You will serve here as ordered, as will I, and we
will honor the Führer and the Fatherland. Period.
Kappler looked at his friend, who for the last year also had been his su-
perior 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 num-
ber 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
valueFrance, Russia, othershe cannot afford to send the forces necessary
to do so. And when that is realized by the Italian militarywho some say
would just as well fight against us, which is to say not fight any invasion
well be left to defend this pathetic island alone. Well 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 cityno, not even