The 34th Degree

38

I t was early morning on the island of Corfu when Baron von Berg came down the steps of the Achillion and got into the back of his Mercedes. He was in the full black dress uniform of an SS general. He avoided wearing the black around Aphrodite but preferred it whenever he went into Corfu Town, if only to put the fear of God into the Italians and see Commandant Buzzini jump.

“A beautiful morning, Franz,” he said as they drove along the seafront boulevard toward town. “Beats Berlin these days, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

To their right, the sun was rising over Garitsa Bay. To their left was the old town, its colonnaded houses dating back to the island’s days under British rule. Straight ahead was the old fortress with the Italian flag flying overhead and, beyond that, their destination, the Palace of St. Michael and St. George.

The former residence of the British governor and the Greek royal family was now the headquarters of the Italian commandant. Franz turned in through the triumphal arch known as St. George’s Gate and braked to a halt at the Doric colonnade along the front of the palace. Von Berg got out and went up the steps past the Italian sentry.

Inside, a corporal was sitting behind a table at the bottom of the stairs, pretending to busy himself with paperwork, when the sound of von Berg’s boots made him look up, fix his eyes on the black uniform, and leap to his feet.

“The commandant is expecting me,” von Berg announced, proceeding up the stairs without bothering to check in, leaving the corporal to pick up the phone and, in a frantic voice, warn Buzzini’s office.

Sergeant Racini, the commandant’s lanky young aide, was just replacing his receiver when von Berg appeared. Racini looked up helplessly. His big, pointed nose and small eyes reminded von Berg of a nervous rat sniffing the air for a whiff of cheese. Without wasting his breath on the fool, von Berg brushed by Racini’s desk and burst into Buzzini’s office.

Buzzini was still in the middle of his Italian breakfast, chewing a tiny sandwich and sipping ersatz espresso. At von Berg’s appearance, he coughed up his espresso. “General von Berg,” he said, standing up and wiping his small, petulant mouth. “This is most unexpected.”

“But so much more fun, Commandant,” von Berg replied, noting the rolls of fat quaking beneath the commandant’s tunic. The man was a disgrace to all men in uniform. “You have my mail?”

Buzzini shot a fiery glance at the helpless Racini, who had followed von Berg into the office. “The general’s cables from Berlin, Sergeant,” Buzzini ordered in his baritone voice. “Bring them to me.”

The ratlike Racini disappeared and returned with several dispatches. Buzzini took them from his aide and handed them to von Berg. “Anything else?” he asked politely, although von Berg could detect the rage bubbling beneath the surface of his dark, fleshy face.

Von Berg ignored him and moved to the window and quickly sorted through the various dispatches to learn what the Italians had seen. Mostly routine, except for a special order from the naval high command and an encoded signal from German minister Otto Carl Kocher in Switzerland.

“I’d like to be alone for a few minutes,” von Berg replied finally. “Could you wait outside?”

At that moment Franz entered the office with what looked like a small typewriter. He proceeded to clear the top of Buzzini’s desk and put down the Sonlar coding machine.

Buzzini turned red, his eyes flashing in anger and his loose jowls quivering. “This is an outrage, General. This is my office! I am the commandant of Corfu!”

“A commandant who can receive nothing except what is given him by the Reich, including this island,” von Berg responded. “And what is freely given to you can just as easily be taken away.”

Buzzini stared at him, livid. “General Vecchiarelli will hear of this, von Berg. Come, Sergeant.”

With that, Buzzini and his aide left the office, closing the door behind them.

Von Berg shook his head. The commandant had little reason to hope that his new boss, Vecchiarelli, would fare any better than his old boss, Geloso, the former commander of all Italian troops in Greece. Already plans had been drawn for the Germans to disarm and replace the Italian Eleventh Army in Greece and, if necessary, to occupy Italy. Operation Alarich, Hitler called it, after the fifth-century Teutonic conqueror of Rome.

Von Berg handed Franz the encoded signal from Switzerland. “Decode this,” he said, and turned his attention to the naval dispatch. He could always gauge Hitler’s reaction to his intelligence reports by the orders handed down through the various services. This one from the naval war staff confirmed that Hitler had rejected his stolen plans for the Sicily invasion and instead was sold on the idea that the Allies would be invading Greece. It was dated May 20 and labeled MOST