Cristina Loggia

Prologue

Gazala, North Africa, June 1942

Erwin Rommel removed the goggles that had been sheltering his eyes from the desert sand, stepped out of his Horch armoured cabriolet and walked to the edge of the cliff perched over the East Mediterranean Sea. He was a sober man, of medium height. His sharp, inquisitive eyes scanned the horizon as if his next military target were due north, rather than west. His gaze remained fixed across the water.

In a day that was coming to an end, the General inhaled a deep breath of the fresh and humid air blowing from the sea, a sudden relief from the heat of a scorching and unforgiving North African sun. His lungs felt an immediate balsamic cooling. The evening dew was starting to appear on the few blades of surviving grass. He could hear the soft backwash of the waves crashing on the narrow beach at the bottom, foamy and shining in the glow of the last rays of light.

Von Mellenthin, his intelligence officer, had travelled with him up there, just outside Gazala, after a twenty-minute car trip on the road along the rugged east coast of town. He handed the General a cup of mint tea that Rudolf Schneider, Rommel’s driver, had rushed to pour from a field thermos as soon as they stopped. The Desert Fox, as he came to be known for his daring manoeuvres that routinely outwitted an enemy in far greater number, had adopted this habit from the Berber tribes that had been roaming over those lands for centuries. He found the drink quite refreshing, despite the heat of the liquid.

Von Mellenthin lit a cigarette, observed the spiral of smoke that came out from his lips, then looked at Rommel. He wondered if a Roman General, or a Persian, or even a Carthaginian Commander before him, had stood in that same vantage point to admire the vastness of the sea, while plotting his next move. Time and time again, Libya had been a land of conquest by the powerful empires of the ancient past, and now it was the turn of the mighty Third Reich.

Rommel turned around and began to observe the hauntingly beautiful dunes of the desert. A hawk was screaming, high in the silent, clear sky, which was rapidly turning to a deeper blue now. What a stark contrast with its earlier blinding whiteness, the clouds of dust and the infernal noise of the heavy artillery in the battle that had raged until a few hours before.

The Panzers of the German Afrika Korps and the Italian Ariete Division tanks had defeated the Eighth Army of the British Forces, which was left flying in disorder. In a relentless attack, his men, fighting like devils, had conquered the all-important Gazala line, west of Tobruk, taking a substantial number of enemy prisoners. A landslide, an overwhelming victory, achieved despite the desperate situation of his supply lines: Rommel had been receiving a third of what was necessary.

That’s what was on his mind right now.

And he was furious.

If the Axis forces were to conquer Egypt, establishing there the solid stronghold necessary to capture the strategic oil fields of the Middle East, that vital flow had to reach full capacity.

Instead, the convoys arriving from Italy had been sunk by the attacks of the Royal Air Force with astonishing regularity. Troops, guns, ammunition, vehicles, medical supplies, food, and above all, petrol, were all sent to the bottom of the sea, slowing down the ability to push forward at the speed the General was capable of.

The situation was nothing short of disastrous.

‘I should be well on my way to Cairo by now,’ Rommel said sourly to Von Mellenthin. ‘Instead, we are forced into a stop, stuck here, waiting for the next shipment to Tripoli. If only we had adequate, uninterrupted and secure supplies, I would probably be there already, looking at the Pyramids from General Auchinleck’s felucca on the Nile.’

He felt frustrated that the thrust of his action was curbed by shortcomings beyond his control.

‘There’s something very wrong going on in Rome and I am determined to get to the bottom of it. I want quick and decisive action to sort it out, once and for all,’ he said sharply.

Or quite frankly run the risk of having to get out of North Africa altogether, he reckoned, but kept that thought to himself.

Von Mellenthin was well aware of the problem. Based on a number of reports he had received over the past weeks, he had conveyed to the General his suspicions of leaks in the Italian security, which meant that the route of the convoys had been passed onto the British, enabling them to be so precise in targeting and sinking the ships.

‘Mein General, I have been assured that renewed efforts have been made to narrow down the list of possible suspects, whose identification could be imminent.’ But he knew that Rommel wasn’t going to be satisfied with that.

‘I do not have the luxury of time for the culprits to be found,’ he snapped. ‘Arresting those responsible might take too long. In the meantime, we need to make sure we get those supplies right now! I don’t want another ship to get sunk, for God’s sake. We can’t afford it.’

Rommel had a hard, practical streak, almost businesslike. Being a man of rapid decisions, he preferred swift solutions.

He continued. ‘I have discussed a plan with the Fuehrer; he agrees that’s the best course of action. And I have spoken with Kesselring this afternoon.’

Field Marshal Albert Kesselring, the Wehrmacht Commander-in-Chief South, was stationed in Rome, Italy’s capital, and responsible for all operations in the region.

‘He reassured me that Goering would give full air cover. I’ve made plans for a meeting with them both. I need to see them personally to seal the deal.’

The support of Hermann Goering, Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force, was equally crucial.

That must have cost both men quite something, Von Mellenthin thought, for Rommel had gone straight to Adolf Hitler to demand that his high officers, of a rank superior to the General of the Afrika Korps, would give him full backup.

Rommel had such direct access to the Fuehrer. Hitler adored Rommel. The Desert Fox was cunning, daring, brave and possessed an untiring will: he incarnated the perfect fighting animal, proving to be as such since his very first battle, standing out for his great grasp of strategy, his ruthless execution of orders, his indomitable spirit. But what counted for Hitler most of all, was that Rommel seemed to be unstoppable: he was winning, winning and winning again. The Fuehrer felt ecstatic every time news was announced to be arriving from the North African front: he knew they would not disappoint. Hitler had promoted Rommel from Colonel to General in a matter of months. The man had become his favourite General.

That did not go down well for a few in Hitler’s General Staff, including Kesselring and Goering, although nobody ever questioned the decisions of the leader of the Nazi Third Reich. But they secretly snubbed Rommel.

‘I will go to Rome with my personal aircraft tomorrow. I’ve already given the order that my Junker be ready to leave,’ Rommel said. ‘Colonel Friedrich Schaeffer will go with me. You will brief him as soon as we get back to camp. I do not want anyone else to know the reason for my sudden departure; that’s why I wanted to speak to you in private.’

Von Mellenthin nodded to the General and they started discussing all the details of the mission. The intelligence officer dared to ask, ‘Sir, do you believe that Mussolini will accept handing over control of such an operation so easily?’

Von Mellenthin knew the sensitivity of that matter, for his secret reports told him how enraged the Italian Prime Minister had been at the prospect. It was an issue of pride, and losing control meant admitting that once again, he might need to step back and let a German do the job, due to the failures on his side.

Rommel replied, ‘Benito Mussolini was convinced by our Fuehrer in less than half an hour of discussion.’

The Duce, too, in the end, could not say no to his powerful Axis ally, Adolf Hitler.

A light breeze started to pick up. Von Mellenthin noticed a file of camels in the distance: they were the Meharians, part of the colonial troops that supported the Italians in Cyrenaica and Tripolitania, their colonies in Libya. The Italians had been so demoralised before General Rommel was sent to their aid, after their ruinous defeat by the Commonwealth forces. The Italians once more were proving to be the weak link in the critically important task of ensuring that supplies arrived timely and intact across the Mediterranean. The fortunes of the war in North Africa were depending on that.

‘The Gestapo is waiting for your visit at the Embassy. They will be joining forces with the Fascist police to find out who and where the intelligence is leaking from,’ he commented, adding, ‘They intend to establish how it is then passed on to the enemy. They have reasons to believe the Vatican might be involved.’

‘Well, let’s hope that the devil is on our side then,’ Rommel said, in a half serious, half funny tone.

Both men walked towards the car and got in. ‘Drive on, Rudolf,’ ordered the General.

Schneider started the engine of the Horch to take Rommel and Von Mellenthin back to base.

PART I

ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE

Chapter 1

Rome, July 1942

At this point, Cordelia was certain that nobody was following her. And now, with the spires of Castel Sant’Angelo in sight, the Vatican was just a few minutes away. I am almost there, she thought, reassured, but still slightly lengthening her stride. Cordelia was heading to a secret appointment in the Holy City with Father Colombo, an old friend of the family, who had promised to help her escape from Rome under a false identity. Although desperate to get there, she resisted the temptation of taking her car. It might have been quicker, but as not many women drove an automobile in Rome, she was afraid to run into a military patrol, be stopped and perhaps even taken to the Fascist command for questions. The last thing she needed was for them to start enquiring about her whereabouts and log her name to an official document at the station.

That morning, Cordelia had woken up quite early, quickly put on her robe and had left her home in the dépendance of the hotel, Palazzo Roveri. Cosier and more private, it was originally the former dwelling of the chief mistress of Cardinal Roveri, who could visit his mistress in total secrecy through a passage that connected it with the main building.

Looking at the palace’s glorious stone façade, she marvelled again at how successful it had become in a matter of a few years.

I have to leave all this, possibly forever, Cordelia thought with regret.

She crossed the scented, manicured garden and went straight into the kitchen through the back door. Alma, the cook, a dark-haired stocky lady in her late fifties, had already arrived, and the kettle on the stove was spreading a fragrant smell of freshly brewed black coffee. Flaminia, the waitress and hotel maid, was late as usual, but today Cordelia didn’t mind; in fact, it was better that way.

‘I have to go out this morning and might not be back for a couple of hours, Alma,’ she said.

Although the tone of her voice was calm, Alma knew her too well and could read a trace of tension on Cordelia’s face, but being a person of few words, she said nothing, and poured her an abundant cup of the aromatic liquid. Thanking Alma, Cordelia sat down and sipped it slowly, while enjoying the cool breeze coming in from an open window. It had been quite hot over the past week, and despite the storm of the night before, the weather was already warming up again.

Romans were already out in good numbers in the streets. It looked all so normal, with people going about their business, despite the war. But it wasn’t normal, not at all. Everyone needed to have ration cards to go shopping now, a system put in place by the regime, right after Mussolini made the ill-fated decision to enter the war in 1940. Finding certain types of food and other goods was becoming more difficult and, therefore, wives were rushing out of the door as early as possible to make sure they got at least the basics for the day. Cordelia could easily melt into the crowd.

She finished her coffee, got up and returned to her dwelling to get dressed.

Choosing to appear as ordinary as possible, Cordelia picked a light blue cotton skirt and a white blouse.

She looked at her image in the mirror: a bit taller than the average, with an hourglass figure and long voluptuous legs, she didn’t want to attract the usual attention from men. She was twenty-three years old now, but since she had reached her late teens, she had noticed heads turned when she went by. She hid her long, golden-brown hair under a silk headscarf, crossed it under her chin and tied it behind her neck. She grabbed her bag and slipped out of the side door of the walled garden.

Instead of taking a more direct route, which would have brought her to Father Colombo’s house inside the Vatican in less than thirty minutes, Cordelia decided to go a different way. It would take longer to get there, but if somebody was following her, she would have the chance to spot her pursuer. She had had the sensation she was being watched of late, although Cordelia never really saw anyone to justify that suspicion. It was real yet immaterial at the same time, as if a shadow was behind her every now and then.

Perhaps I am becoming paranoid, she thought, shivering.

At the corner of Via dei Tigli, she looked furtively over her shoulder, crossed the road and stopped in front of a shop. She glanced at the images reflected in the window, but saw no one suspicious. Cordelia became aware of the sound of her footsteps on the stone pavement as she walked on. A couple of Fascists in their black uniforms were stationed at the corner of Piazza Abate so she chose to go around the opposite side, keeping an eye on them. They continued to chat between each other, not seeming to notice her. As she was halfway round, they entered the café on the corner, disappearing into its dimly lit interior.

She walked for about an hour, avoiding the main squares, doubling up a couple of times, only to retrace her steps as soon as she was sure she didn’t have anyone tailing her. She finally arrived on the bank of the river Tiber and crossed it on the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II. Instead of taking Via della Conciliazione, which led directly to St Peter’s Square, she headed for the side entrance of Porta Sant’Anna, guarded by the Lansquenets, the Papal Swiss Guards, in their glorious medieval striped uniforms. Entering the Vatican, she felt her shoulders relax a bit – she was in neutral territory.

The Holy See and the Republic of Italy had agreed the incorporation of Vatican City as an independent state under the religious and political sovereignty of the Pope with the Lateran Pacts in 1929. Since then, the current head of the Roman Catholic church, Pope Pius IX, with the agreement of Mussolini, had declared the city completely neutral in the matter of all international relations.

At the oratory of Sant’Egidio a Borgo, Cordelia turned right in Via dei Pellegrini and knocked on the heavily carved wooden portal just beside a small stone fountain used for centuries by the pilgrims visiting the Holy City.

Brother Filippo, the taciturn assistant of Father Colombo, an old bald friar, wearing the long dark habit of the Franciscan Order, was quick to open it. He gave her a warm smile and with his gentle, soft voice said, ‘Come in. Come in, child.’ Smiling back, she swiftly entered, closing the door behind her. Once inside, the tension almost instantly abandoned Cordelia. It was as if the imposing oil portrait of a Mary Magdalen with open arms, gracing the simple entrance hall, whispered to her: Welcome. You’re safe here. You can rest now.

‘Father Colombo is waiting for you, Miss Olivieri,’ he said.

They climbed the stone staircase and reached the first floor. Father Colombo was working in his smaller and more private study. The room looked Spartan, with its white walls, an oak desk by the window, and two old armchairs that faced each other in front of a fireplace. A large number of books in various languages and of different subjects were lined up on the shelves arranged across the study. Many were quite old tomes, some ancient. Works varied from, The Confessions of Saint Augustine, to Homer’s Odyssey, Shakespeare’s Othello, a couple of editions of the Kabbalah, and then Stendhal, Dickens, Leonardo Da Vinci, the Koran. Father Colombo was an avid reader. The only sign of luxury was a thick oriental wool rug that a parishioner returning from his pilgrimage in the Holy Land insisted he accepted as a gift.

The whole room smelled of the freshly picked lavender flowers Brother Filippo had placed in a vase sitting on the windowsill the day before.

‘Come here, Cordelia. I am glad you have arrived without delay. Sit down,’ Father Colombo said. ‘I’ve asked Brother Filippo to prepare us one of his miraculously relaxing herbal teas.’

Brother Filippo, an expert in medicinal herbs, smiled, secretly pleased by Father Colombo’s appreciation of his knowledge.