Not as a boy, and certainly not as a man. Even as a student, duelling with sabres at the University of Vienna, his padded tunic stained deep red, he had fought on long after others had conceded. He recalled a photograph, his smile broad and bloodied alongside those of his brethren, a tankard of beer in his hand, all of them toasting yet another brutal tournament.So when Luca Impelliteri made his threat, Skorzeny did not retreat.Standing over the table outside a Tarragona cafe, he had held his ground, listened, his face expressionless.“I will tell the Generalissimo everything,” Impelliteri had said, smiling up at him. “I will tell him you are a liar and a fraud, that your fearsome reputation is built on a propagandist’s story, and that he should not court your company.”“And why should he believe you?”“Francisco Franco is a careful man. He is always suspicious. He has not held his position for decades by being reckless. If there is doubt, he will remove you from his circle of friends rather than risk being made to appear foolish.
