Luciano’s Luck

Koenig entered behind him. His NCO’s field cap was an affectation of some of the old timers, silver death’s head badge glinting in the lamplight. The scarlet and black ribbon of the Knight’s Cross made a brave show at his throat. He wore a leather greatcoat which had seen long service and paratroopers’ jumpboots. He lit a cigarette, pausing just inside the door, and flicked a finger against the bell which echoed eerily.

‘Has it ever rung?’

‘Frequently,’ Barbera said. ‘Limbs behave strangely as they stiffen in death. If what the Major means is has anyone returned to life, that, too. A girl of twelve and on another occasion, a man of forty. Both revived after death had been pronounced. That, after all, is the purpose of these places.’

‘You Sicilians seem to me to have an excessive preoccupation with death,’ Koenig said.

‘Not to the extent that we are excited by the idea of being buried alive.’

From the preparation room, peering through the crack in the door, Carter leaned against Rosa, fighting the pain, and watched them place the stretcher on a table and uncover Schäfer, the feldpolizei sergeant. The face was streaked with blood, the eyes staring. Barbera closed them with a practised movement.

‘Sergeant Schäfer was a good man,’ Koenig said. ‘I need hardly point out that it would be most unfortunate for anyone found harbouring the man who did this.’

Barbera said, ‘What would you like me to do with him, Major?’

‘Clean him up and deliver him to Geheimefeldpolizei headquarters in Agrigento.’

Barbera covered Schäfer with the blanket again. ‘I have a previous engagement tomorrow. The family of the Contessa di Bellona wish me to fetch her body from the women’s prison in Palermo. A matter of some delicacy.’

‘Understandably,’ Koenig said.

‘In the circumstances, I had intended taking another corpse down to Agrigento tonight. See, in here.’

He moved to the door of the preparation room, opened it and led the way in, holding the lamp high so that Koenig could see the corpse of the old man. In the darkness of the rear cupboard, Carter slumped against Rosa and her arms tightened about him.

‘I could take Sergeant Schäfer at the same time,’ Barbera said. ‘Of course, I would need a pass. Major. I presume your men will be active on all roads tonight.’

He followed Koenig out and Carter waited there in the dark, the pain in his lung like a living thing. God, he thought, perhaps I’m dying. He clutched desperately at the girl as if she was life itself, conscious of the softness of her flesh, her breasts tight against him.

He groaned, struggling to control the pain, and she fastened her mouth over his as if to hold the sound in, her tongue working furiously. In spite of the agony, his flesh reacted to her practised hands.

After a while she opened the door cautiously and led him out. Carter propped himself against one of the tables, aware of the sound of vehicles driving away down there in the courtyard.

‘What were you trying to do, kill me or cure me?’ he croaked.

She wiped sweat from his face with one of Barbera’s towels. ‘We have a saying, Colonel. There is the big death and then there is the small death which may be repeated many times. Which would you prefer?’

He stared down into that old-young face, but before he could reply Barbera came back, holding a piece of paper.

‘Signed by Major Koenig himself. Good for any road block between here and Agrigento. With luck, you should make that submarine after all.’

‘How?’ Carter said.

‘I wouldn’t dream of having a hearse without a hidden compartment. Comes in handy. Of course, you’ll be lying flat on your back with two corpses in coffins just inches above your nose, but I can guarantee you won’t smell a thing.’ He grinned. ‘Stick with me, old buddy and you’ll live for ever.’

3

The JU52 which flew in from Rome with Field Marshal Albert Kesselring landed at the Luftwaffe base at Punta Raisi outside Palermo just after nine in the morning. An hour later, he was at German Army headquarters in the old Benedictine Monastery near Monte Pellegrino, drinking coffee in the office of Major General Karl Walther who was temporarily in command.

‘Beautiful,’ Kesselring said, indicating the view. ‘Quite remarkable, and so is the coffee.’

‘Yemeni mocha.’ Walther poured him another cup. ‘We still manage some of the finer things in life here.’

‘We had some difficulty driving through the town. There seemed to be religious processions everywhere.’

‘Some sort of holy week. They hold them all the time. Everything grinds to a halt. They’re a very religious people.’

‘So it would appear,’ Kesselring said. ‘When one of the processions passed us I noticed a rather unusual feature. The Image of the Virgin they were carrying had a knife through its heart.’

‘Typically Sicilian,’ Walther replied. ‘The cult of death everywhere.’

Kesselring put down his cup. ‘All right, what have I got?’

‘There are eight this morning. All Iron Crosses. First Class, except for the two in whom the Field Marshal has a special interest.’

‘Let’s take a look.’

Walther opened the door and ushered him out onto a stone-flagged terrace, an ironwork grille between the pillars. Below in the courtyard eight men were drawn up.

‘Koenig on the far end,’ Herr Field Marshal Walther said. ‘The man next to him is Sturmscharführer Brandt.’

‘Who receives the Knight’s Cross?’

‘The third occasion that Koenig has put him forward.’

‘So,’ Kesselring nodded. ‘Then let’s get on with it.’

Major Max Koenig was twenty-six and looked ten years older. He had seen action in Poland, France and Holland and had transferred to the newly formed 21st SS Paratroop Battalion in time for the drop over Maleme airfield in Crete in 1941 where he was seriously wounded. Then came the Winter War in Russia. Two years of it and it showed: in the gold wound badge that said he’d been a casualty on five separate occasions; in the general air of weariness, the empty look in the dark eyes.

Except for the silver death’s head badge in his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all fallschirmjäger: flying blouse, jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots. On his left sleeve was the Kreta cuff title, proud badge of those who had spearheaded the invasion of Crete. The gold and silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification badge was pinned to his left breast beside the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves hung at his throat.

Standing at ease at the end of the line waiting to receive the Swords, he felt strangely indifferent and yet strove to find the right thing to say to Sergeant-Major Brandt for whom this was a moment of supreme importance.

‘So, Rudi,’ he whispered. ‘The great occasion at last.’

‘Thanks to you, Major,’ Brandt replied. He was an innkeeper’s son from the Austrian Tyrol, a small, wiry man who could climb all day with no need of rest. He and Koenig had been together for more than two years now.

There was a clatter of boots on the stone stairs as Kesselring and General Walther appeared and someone called the parade to attention.

It was a pleasant enough affair, for Kesselring was in good humour, full of his usual charm. He had a word for each man as he pinned on the ribbon. They responded well, as was only to be expected, for he was, after all, Commander-in-chief South and arguably one of the best half-dozen generals on either side during the Second World War.

They had reached Brandt now and Kesselring did a marvellous thing, throwing all distinctions of rank to one side, clapping Brandt on the shoulders and shaking him warmly by the hand before hanging the coveted cross around his neck.

‘My dear Brandt, a real pleasure, I assure you as one soldier to another, and long overdue.’

Brandt was overcome and Koenig was unable to keep a fleeting smile from his lips. A master stroke, but Kesselring knew how to handle men. Then the Field Marshal was standing in front of him, a slightly wry smile on his face as if he had noticed Koenig’s reaction and was asking him to bear with him.

‘What on earth can I say, Major? You are only the thirtieth recipient of the Swords since the award was created. Normally, our Führer himself would wish to decorate you personally, but these are extraordinary times. I can only say how delighted I am that the honour falls to me.’