“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer! The sturmbannführer has asked me to take you directly to the hotel where you will be staying. With the sturmbannführer’s compliments, sir.”
Is the bastard blatantly ignoring me?
“But where the hell is he? I thought it was clear that he was supposed to be expecting me.”
“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer! And he is. At the Hotel Michelangelo. After we get you checked in.”
Burger then gestured somewhat nervously to the door, and added, “It is right around the corner, Herr Obersturmbannführer. Just two blocks, sir.”
* * *
Interesting, Oskar Kappler thought after unpacking his overnight bag and taking a long look out the window of his suite on the top floor of the Hotel Michelango. I don’t know what Müller is up to, but it’s clear he’s trying to make amends with this very nice room.
The suite had a wide view of the harbor. Kappler saw that there were mostly commercial fishing boats moored there. And at the end of one of the T-shaped piers—newly rebuilt, he knew, to replace the pier that had burned when the cargo ship blew up just after off-loading the Tabun—were a pair of Schnellboots.
Still, I don’t trust the bastard one bit, he thought as he went into the hall and pulled the door shut.
Coming down the stairs, Kappler saw that Günther Burger and Otto Lieber were seated on facing couches in the center of the wide tile-floored lobby. They appeared to be conversing with the ease of old friends.
When Burger noticed Kappler coming down the wide stairs, he popped to his feet. Lieber automatically followed suit.
Kappler scanned the lobby. He saw that the cocktail lounge was at the front of the hotel, just off the lobby and beyond a wide arched passageway that had two large potted palms on either side. He walked to the scharführers.
“I have alerted Sturmbannführer Müller that you are here,” Burger said. “He said he is coming right away.”
“Good,” Kappler said, and looked to the lounge. “I’ll be in there. Otto, you are free until nine tomorrow morning, when I’ll se
e you right here. Try to stay out of trouble.”
* * *
Kappler took a seat at a cocktail table in the far corner with a view of the lobby through the arched passageway. The lounge was empty except for two older men drinking at the wooden bar. When they glanced at Kappler as he entered, he thought they looked intelligent and educated—if not exactly thrilled to see an SS uniform—and guessed they might be university professors.
The bartender—a short, fat Sicilian whose coarse skin and hard features made Kappler think he would be better suited as, say, a fishmonger—waddled across the room to him.
When it immediately became clear that the bartender did not speak German or English, Kappler pointed to a wall where a wine advertisement had been tacked up as decoration. It had a sketch of a bottle of red wine.
Kappler pointed to it, said, “Bottiglia rosso,” then used his index finger to indicate “one.”
The bartender grunted, left, and shortly thereafter waddled back to him carrying a heavy, tall water glass and a bottle of red wine.
As Kappler watched the bartender struggle with the corkscrew in his sausage-shaped fingers, he became more convinced the man wasn’t meant to serve drinks. And when he botched the ritual of offering the cork and then a taste of the wine before completely filling the glass—and the man did indeed fill the glass, right to the lip—Kappler really began to suspect something very strange was happening.
The bartender then, without a word, turned with the open bottle and started back for the bar.
Kappler was about to stop him, then looked at the glass and thought, Hell, this should last me quite some time—if I can figure out how to drink it without soaking my uniform.
He had just bent forward to start very carefully sipping at the wine when he noticed someone was entering the lounge. He glanced up and saw two attractive young Sicilian women in tight, revealing dresses.
When he saw that they were leading a man in an SS uniform, he sat up.
Müller!
SS-Sturmbannführer Hans Müller was of medium build with a slight paunch. He had dark eyes that were not necessarily pleasant, puffy cheeks, and thinning black hair that he purposefully had cut to resemble that of Hitler’s.
Kappler saw that Müller’s hair now was mussed and his tunic not completely buttoned.
It looks like he just pulled it on!