132
At the Achillion on Corfu, Commandant Buzzini was sitting behind what had been Baron von Berg’s desk, surveying the bomb damage to the study while his men searched the rest of the abandoned palace. The shattered portrait of King Ludwig II on the floor beside him attracted his attention, and he leaned over to take a closer look. For an eerie moment the Italian sensed that it was Baron von Berg himself staring out through those shards of glass, smiling at him from the Great Beyond.
“Commandant.”
“What?” Buzzini jumped up in his seat only to see Sergeant Racini standing in front of the desk.
“Sorry, Commandant, sir.”
Buzzini regained his composure and frowned. “What is it, Sergeant?”
“The Germans are sending more divisions to Greece!” Racini handed the signal from Rome to his subdued superior. “Commandant, did you hear me?” Then Racini saw the blown-out safe in the wall and the Husky report lying on the desk in front of Buzzini.
“It seems I have accidentally opened the Baron’s safe,” Buzzini explained.
“You opened SS reports?” Racini crossed himself. “They will cut our throats for this!”
Buzzini pushed the Husky report across the desk to Racini. “Read it, Sergeant.”
Racini picked up the report addressed TO THE LEADER AND CHANCELLOR OF THE STATE AND MARKED MOST SECRET. As he read it, his eyes grew wide. “Mother of God!” he cried when he finished. “It is Italy the Allies invade!”
“The Baron himself confirms this,” said Buzzini.
Racini passed back the report. “My sisters are in Palermo.”
“And they’ll probably shower the Americans with kisses when they come. Sergeant, we must think fast what to do.”
Then Buzzini thought of something else. What would happen to him and his men should the Allies attack Italy? How would the Germans react? Will we Italians be treated like allies, he wondered, or enemies? The Italian commandant knew what to do.
“For our sakes and our families, Sergeant,” said Buzzini, “we must pray the Allies land with the element of surprise.”
Racini nodded, speechless, as Buzzini struck a match and torched the report, dropping the whole mess into a wastebasket.
“I never saw this,” said Buzzini. “Did you?”
“Oh, no, never, Commandant.”
“As for this ancient text the report speaks of…” Buzzini looked around the room and saw the broken glass case in the corner. “Look over there, Sergeant.”
Racini walked over to the case and shrugged. “There is nothing here, Commandant.”
Buzzini rubbed his whiskers. “The Baron must have taken it,” he said decisively, “because it’s not in the safe.”
“Now what, Commandant?”
“Now we take care of the last remaining piece of evidence.” Buzzini rose to his feet. “Tomorrow morning the Achillion is to reopen as a hospital. See that it looks like one. As far as we’re concerned, it was never anything else.”
“Yes, Commandant.”
“And, Sergeant”-Buzzini looked up at his young aide with flashing, angry eyes-“do you swear to God to keep this a secret?”
The sergeant from Palermo crossed himself with trembling fingers and said, “To the grave, sir.”
133
At Hitler’s holiday house in Obersalzberg, the Fuhrer and his generals had just viewed footage of Wernher von Braun’s A-4 rockets when a grim-faced Himmler walked in on the weapons conference.
“Reichsfuhrer,” Hitler observed. “You don’t look happy.”
“I regret that I must be the bearer of bad tidings to my Fuhrer.” Himmler presented the signal from Berlin that said SS general Ludwig von Berg had been killed during an Allied air strike on Corfu. Himmler concealed his delight behind a mournful facade.
Hitler’s fury was evident as he crumpled the paper in his hand. “And what has become of Dr. Xaptz?”
“Killed as well by the enemy.”
“And the research von Berg was eager to show us today?”
“Lost, I’m afraid.”
Hitler sighed and looked at the A-4 rockets on the screen. “No matter,” he told the generals in the room. “We now possess the decisive weapons of the war. Production will begin immediately. Soon hails of fire will rain upon London.”
Everybody in the room murmured their agreement except Admiral Canaris, who was lost in sobering reflection at the news of von Berg’s death.
“As for this air strike on Corfu,” Hitler went on, “it can only affirm that my intuition was right and von Berg’s intelligence wrong about the Allies’ intentions in Greece. General Jodl?”
The chief of staff of the Armed Forces High Command sat up in his chair. “Yes, my Fuhrer?”
“The 194th Jager and the First Gebirgs Divisions are to join the German First Panzer Division in Greece immediately.”
“Two more divisions?” asked Jodl. “That makes five additional divisions you’ve deployed to Greece in recent weeks.”
“Yes, Jodl, I know that,” said Hitler, glaring. “How often must I repeat myself around here?”
134
It was the stormy, moonless night of July 9, 1943, when American and British forces landed on Sicily, catching the Germans and Italians by surprise. Within seventy-two hours, more than five hundred thousand troops touched shore. It would be a matter of weeks before Italy surrendered to the Allies and declared war on her former ally Germany.
As a result, fierce fighting broke out among the German and Italian garrisons on the Greek islands in September. The German commandant of Cefalonia declared open season on Italians when he told his troops: “Hunters! The next twenty-four hours are yours.” Four thousand Italians were shot that day. On Corfu, the fighting was especially heated, and the Italians and Germans clashed with such fury that a violent fire broke out and swept the island.
As for Corfu’s former Italian commandant, Buzzini, he was no longer stationed on the island, having shrewdly managed to get himself and Sergeant Racini demoted by means of appearing incompetent. He was waiting on the beaches of Sicily the night the Allies landed, smug in the confidence that he knew something the Fuhrer didn’t.
Thus, when U.S. Army second lieutenant Billy Hayfield’s landing craft touched shore, the dumbfounded Texan was greeted by one of the most unusual sights of World War II as Buzzini and other so-called defenders of Sicily helped his unit unload.
PRESENT DAY
135
Deker awoke from his nightmare, gasping for air. He sat up in his bed and let his eyes adjust in the columned room. Shafts of morning light streamed through the drapes and marble columns onto a vast mosaic floor. He stood up on the cold tiles and walked over to a table piled with ancient scrolls.
He pulled one out and unrolled it. He recognized the letters as Greek and was stunned to realize that he understood it. It was a copy of Aristotle’s Poetics. There were others. Books about the arts, history. There was one about Rome’s campaign in Germania, another one about the ancient battle of Jericho. The pile of scrolls collapsed from his touch to reveal a dirty, secret scroll hidden behind them all. This one, too, was in Greek: The Revelation of Jesus Christ, by John the Apostle.
He stepped outside into the adjoining courtyard, where a ravishing brunette emerged dripping from a bathing pool. Behind her was a gigantic, half-finished sculpture of herself. She wrapped a clingy gown around her supple, golden body. Then she turned to face him with her two round breasts.
“Aphrodite,” he said.
“This year’s model,” she said, and kissed him on the lips. “But I’ll always be your Helena.”
He saw the tarp and tools next to the statue of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. “Did I do that, Helena?” he asked her.