Kappler and Schrader were in the Sicherheitsdienst; the SD was the intelligence arm of the Schutzstaffel. The SD-which was to say SS-Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmel-did not trust the German military intelligence agency-which was to say Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, under whom Himmel once had served-any more than it trusted any of the British or American intelligence agencies.

Kappler and Schrader had served in the Messina SS office for the last eighteen months. But they had been friends far longer, going back nearly fourteen years, when they were university students in Berlin and playing on the school's polo team.

"He asked me down to coffee under the pretense of 'a matter of great urgency,'" Kappler explained. "Turned out he only wanted to talk shop."

He waved toward the telephone on Schrader's desk, knowing that as a matter of course they tapped all the SS office lines. "Check the tape if you do not believe me!"

"You need to calm down, Oskar," Schrader said as he got up from his desk. "That won't be necessary, and you know it."

Kappler thought: Maybe that was over the top . . . or perhaps just right.

He watched Schrader, hands stuffed in his pockets, casually cross the highly polished stone floor and stop at one of the half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows with the heavy burgundy-colored drapes pulled back to either side.

Schrader looked out at the sickle-shaped Port of Messina-which the previous night had been busy with a troopship off-loading German and Italian soldiers-and across the emerald green Strait of Messina. The toe of the boot that was mainland Italy was five kilometers away.

Kappler knew that Schrader stood at the window to project a quiet image of one in deep thought, but felt that he overdid it to the point that it appeared pretentious.

"There is not time to calm down," Kappler went on. "We almost had a disastrous experience with these nerve gas weapons, and now they are sending more this week?"

Schrader, still looking out the window, said, "I expected you to be troubled by that, which is why I'm sending you to Palermo this afternoon to ensure all the necessary safeguards are in order."

"And now this Abwehr agent is asking about the nerve gas," Kappler went on, "which of course I lied about any knowledge of."

Schrader turned to look at Kappler.

"He asked-what is this agent's name?-about the Tabun?"

"Beck. Ernst Beck is his name. And, yes, he asked. I said I had no idea what he was talking about."

Schrader met Kappler's eyes for a long moment, nodded thoughtfully, and said, "Interesting."

Then he turned to look back out the window.

Well, I think that convinced him, Kappler thought.

Or at least threw him off the scent for now . . .

At nine o'clock that morning, SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Oskar Kappler had been seated on the patio of Cafe Alessandro that overlooked Piazza Salvatore. It was a warm, sunny morning, and a little more than half of the dozen small round wrought-iron tables were occupied. Kappler had picked one that was in an empty corner with a good view of the piazza.

He was sipping a black coffee and admiring the attractive Sicilian girls making their way to the nearby University of Messina when a man in an ill-fitting rumpled suit approached his table. The man looked to be maybe thirty years old, five-foot-nine, and 190. He had a friendly face with dark, inquisitive eyes and thin black hair that went to his collar and could use a trim. A small white rose was pinned to his lapel.

"Herr Kappler?"

"It is that obvious?" Kappler said, standing and offering his hand.

"The uniform was my first clue."

"I see."

"It is my pleasure to finally meet you. I am Ernst Beck," he said as he shook Kappler's hand, impressed with his firm-but not crushing-grip and the fact that he maintained eye contact throughout.

Beck then added, "Actually, the uniform was my second clue. We of course have a quite detailed dossier on you back at the office."

Kappler made eye contact again.

Would that have anything to do with who my father is? His companies and connections with the High Command?

Or perhaps because I am not exactly blindly faithful to Der Fuhrer and his crumbling Reich?

I didn't exactly throw out my arm and bark "Heil Hitler!" just now. . . .

"Yes, of course you do, Herr Beck. You are, after all, with the German Trade Ministry," he said, slightly sarcastic.

I've known the ministry was your cover since the first day you set foot in Sicily.

"Please, call me Ernst," Beck said, ignoring the sarcasm.

Kappler gestured toward the other seat at the wrought-iron table and said, "Please join me. Coffee? A pastry perhaps? Being so close to the office, I do happen to come here regularly. It is most excellent."

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Beck said.

Kappler sipped at his coffee as he let his eyes wander across the piazza. He then found another two young women, well built and in tight clothing, and watched as they approached then passed the cafe.

Picking up on what Kappler was following, Beck offered, "You know, you'd have far more luck with the locals if you lost that SS uniform."

Kappler's eyes darted back to Beck, who he saw was smiling.

Am I being tested?

"You would think for all we're doing for them," Kappler said, "they could be more appreciative of a man in uniform. They should be grateful. Throwing themselves at us would be a nice start."

Beck met his eyes, and with dripping sarcasm said, "And by that you would mean showering them with the fine ideals of Der Fuhrer and the Thousand-Year Reich? Surely they must be giddy with anticipation to die for a lost cause."

He believes as I do!

Or . . . is that part of the test?

"That is quite a bold statement to make to an officer of the SS," Kappler said evenly.

Beck shrugged. "Not just any SS officer."

What does he mean by that?

Beck looked at Kappler for a long moment and said, "I appreciate you taking time to meet with me."

Kappler glanced across the busy Piazza Salvatore. It was two blocks up from the port and offered a stunning view of the Mediterrean Sea. Cafe Alessandro was one of four restaurants on the piazza. And around the corner was the Schutzstaffel Provisional Headquarters.

Kappler then said: "You chose a rather conspicuous place to meet, wouldn't you say? My office is a block away."

Even the Gestapo's thugs could stumble across us here-and probably have.

"Yes," Beck said, "I would agree that it is quite conspicuous."

"And you're not worried what someone might think? Or say?"

"Someone?"

Kappler smiled. He grabbed both lapels of his tunic and tugged at them in an exaggerated fashion.

"Of all people," he said, "I would expect that someone in your line of work would have noticed there are quite a number more of these around town."

"Ah, yes. And I have. But if we have nothing to hide, why should we hide? Should anyone ask, I can say that I'm making a simple professional courtesy call as the new head of the Trade Ministry."

Kappler grunted.

But we are hiding something . . . perhaps our allegiance?

And here is my test, Herr Beck.

He said, "While that of course is a quite logical line of thought, I'm afraid to say that it cannot be applied to the SS. They can be irrational, and they project the same on others."

"'They'?" Beck repeated.

"They," Kappler confirmed.

"So, then everyone is an enemy of the Reich until proven otherwise?"

Kappler nodded.

"Yes," he said, "although sometimes not even then. I did say they can be irrational."

Beck smiled. "That you did."

Okay, let's cut the bullshit.

"And may I ask what it is that we are not hiding here in this conspicuous place?" He sipped his coffee. "What is it that I can do for the German Trade Ministry that, as you said on the telephone, 'is a matter of most urgency'?"

"Nothing," Beck said. "But I appreciate your kind offer, Herr Kappler. I suspect that at some point I will take you up on it."

"Then this urgent matter . . . ?"

Beck reached inside his suit coat, into the left pocket that was behind the flower.

"Curiosity overwhelms," Kappler said. "Why the white rose?"

Beck glanced at it, then said, "The white rose stands for many things. For some, it is purity and innocence. In our line of work, it's silence and secrecy." He paused, then grinned and added, "That, and the pretty ladies really like it. Perhaps for all those meanings."

Beck produced an envelope.

"This came in very early this morning."

He handed it to Kappler.

There was a folded typewritten sheet inside. Kappler opened it, and as he began to read, he inhaled deeply.

Ach du lieber Gott!

"Karlchen"?

He warned me that he very well one day might have to use it!

Kappler looked back at Beck and tried to gauge if his shocked reaction was as obvious as it felt. Kappler then made a thin smile, and feebly said, "It is from my father."

Beck, stone-faced, nodded.

Trying not to appear anxious, Kappler turned his attention back to the page:

HIGHEST SECRECY.

TO- SS-OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER OSKAR KAPPLER.

SS PROVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS SICILY.

THROUGH- HERR ERNST BECK, DIRECTOR.

GERMAN TRADE MINISTRY, MESSINA, SICILY.

BEGIN MESSAGE.

MIDNIGHT, MAY 27TH,IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 1943.

DEAR OSKAR,.

FIRST, MY KARLCHEN, YOUR MOTHER ASKS THAT I SEND TO YOU HER LOVE AND YOUR SISTER'S LOVE.

SECOND, AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD, THERE RECENTLY HAS BEEN SIGNIFICANT DESTRUCTION IN THE RUHR VALLEY. KNOW THAT OUR FAMILY SUFFERED NO PERSONAL HARM, AS WHEN IT HAPPENED I WAS OUT OF THE COUNTRY ON BUSINESS AND YOUR MOTHER AND SISTER WERE IN BERLIN.