The 34th Degree

107

It was the middle of the night on the island of Corfu, and Aphrodite lay awake in her bed at the Achillion. A warm breeze off the sea blew through the open windows, and the curtains rose with a flutter and a ripple, casting wicked shadows across the moonlit floor. It seemed as if the long, twisted fingers of a giant claw were reaching across the covers of her bed to grab her, then retracting whenever the wind died.

She rolled over and looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was just after three. She wanted to make sure the house staff was asleep before she went downstairs to the Baron’s study. That was where he kept the Maranatha text, she had concluded, the same text Christos had asked her about in Athens and which the monk Philip had told her she must destroy.

She had no choice, for now she knew what it was Christos had been looking for in Athens and what it was she had failed to tell him. If the text wasn’t in her father’s safe in Athens, it had to be here at the Achillion. Why else had the Baron forbidden her from ever revealing the Achillion as his residence to anybody, even her parents, whose last days were filled with anxiety whenever she disappeared from Athens for weeks at a time? Why else was she forbidden to enter the study downstairs? What else could the Baron be hiding that was more valuable than all his other art treasures? It had to be the Maranatha text.

Yes, she told herself, earlier that afternoon she had been ready to die. But now, thanks to Philip, she wanted to live a little longer, if only to help the Allies. May God only forgive me, she thought, for my failure to tell Christos about the Achillion in Athens for fear of the Baron.

She sat up in bed and looked around the room. It was a creepy room, she decided, her eyes darting about. Just beyond the foot of the bed was the wardrobe where the Baron had hanged Karl the week before. Had it been only a week? Several times since then, she had woken up from her sleep, believing she heard a knocking sound coming from inside, as if Karl were still there and wanted to come out. She also had the feeling that she was being watched and at times found her eyes unconsciously drifting back to the eerie portrait of Elizabeth of Austria staring down at her from above the headboard.

She would have passed off these feelings as flights of imagination if not for the indifference with which the staff had treated her since she returned from her evening swim. The Baron was nowhere to be seen, and when she asked where he was, nobody would say. Franz, Peter, Helga-everybody was behaving differently. Then there was the new guest, that hideous little man they called Professor Xaptz. It was as if something sinister were afoot within the palace, a conspiracy in which they were all involved.

She slipped out of bed, put on her robe, and opened the bedroom door. The palace was quiet, but the landing outside was dark, and it was a long way down the stairs to the Baron’s study.

Gathering her courage, she crossed the landing and softly descended the grand staircase. She had reached the sixth step when she stopped. What if the text wasn’t there, either? What if it was in Berlin? She pushed the thought out of her mind and continued down the stairs.

She reached the foyer on the first floor and looked around. Then she started down the long corridor toward the study near the end of the hall. About twenty feet before she reached the door, she could see that it was open and a light was on. In her mind she rehearsed her speech if she was caught. She would say she was worried about Ludwig and had gone down to the study to see if he was there.

As she approached the open door, she remembered how she’d once seen Ludwig and several guests walk into the study, but only he walked out. Another time three guests walked out of the study whom she’d never seen walk in. But the only door to the study was the one before her. At least, it was the only one she was aware of.

Standing in the open doorway, she looked inside.

Nobody was in the study.

She crossed the floor toward Ludwig’s desk and stood before the large painting of King Ludwig II of Bavaria on the wall. Something about the picture bothered her, something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was the same eerie feeling she had lying in bed upstairs beneath the brooding eyes of Empress Elizabeth of Austria.

She slowly turned to survey the rest of the room, taking in the window overlooking the gardens, the heavy drapes, bookshelves that lined the walls, and…a glass case standing in the corner.

Moving toward the case, seemingly tugged by some invisible cord, she could see the ragged fragment of the papyrus beneath the glass. It had been mounted flat, pressed between two other sheets of glass. She stood there in silence, beholding the document that men had killed one another to possess.

She lowered her face to the glass to see if she could read the words scrawled across the papyrus. A few phrases were familiar to her, but classical Greek differed too much from modern Greek for her to comprehend the contents. Unfortunately, she would have to destroy the text without knowing exactly what it said.

Placing her hands on the glass lid of the case, she tried to lift it off. But it was sealed shut, and she could see no latch or hinge. The only way to remove the text would be to break the glass. The problem was how to do that without making too much noise and arousing attention.

She looked around and spotted a bronze bust of Achilles on a shelf, much like the statue outside in the gardens but smaller in scale. It was heavy enough that she had to use both hands to lift it from the shelf and carry it over to the glass case. Cradling the bust in one arm, she lifted the bottom of one of the heavy drapes from the nearby window and spread it across the top of the case. Slowly, she eased the bust onto the cloth cushion until it rested almost entirely on its own weight. As soon as she heard the first crackle of glass, she lifted the bust before it could plunge straight through and placed it back on its shelf. She returned to the glass case, pressed her hand down on the curtain draped over it, and punched down the shards of glass, cringing when they shattered against the glass-plated text and made some noise.

She pulled the curtain aside and dipped her hands into the case, carefully brushing aside the broken glass until she could get a grip on the text. Her fingers grasped the corner, and she lifted it up, the glass from the case sliding off. As she eased the plate out of the case, she became aware of a red streak dribbling down her arm. She then saw the cut on her forearm and suppressed a cry.

When she had freed the glass plate from the case, she slowly turned around. Standing there beside his desk, smiling at her, was the Baron.

“So that’s what Herr Andros was looking for in Athens,” he told her. “The Maranatha text!”

She went cold and almost dropped the text on the floor. She glanced at the doorway, wondering how he’d gotten in.

His eyes lit up as if he had finally fathomed some great mystery. “I never would have guessed,” he said. “Your friend came to steal my secrets, but now I believe I know his.”

Aphrodite thought about what the monk Philip had told her. She had to finish what Christos had started. She couldn’t give up now. “One more step,” she warned him, “and I’ll smash this plate to the floor.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the Baron told her in a cool tone. “Not that it would make any real difference to me. After all, I’ve had the contents translated, photographed, and copied. But then I’d have to punish you, and the world would lose another work of art.”

Aphrodite didn’t know if the Baron was referring to her or the Maranatha text. “I’d rather die than live as part of your collection.”

Before the Baron could answer her, an entire section of the bookcase opened up to reveal a secret passageway. Franz entered the room, stopping abruptly when he saw her.

“Don’t mind her, Franz,” said the Baron. “What is it?”

“This came in from Oberfuhrer Borgman in the field just now.”

Speechless, Aphrodite watched Franz hand the Baron a lengthy communique. When he finished skimming the report, he looked at her with his piercing eyes. “So, it’s over,” he said. “The caique carrying Andros struck a mine and blew up in the Gulf of Messenia.”

With those words, Aphrodite felt something drop to the floor and shatter. But when she looked down and saw the glass plate in her hands, she realized it was her heart that had broken. She fell to her knees, still clinging to the text, and started wailing.

“Murderers!” she cried. “Murderers!”

Von Berg sighed and gave the communique back to Franz. “And yet neither the film nor any wreckage has been found,” he said above her cries. “Why is that?”

“What can I say, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer?” Franz replied. “Two of our R-boat commanders saw the explosion with their own eyes. As for debris, we are searching by air, but as you can imagine, this is difficult at night. Our minesweepers with wooden hulls arrive in the morning. But it may take a good day or two.”

“And what about Spreicher?”

“His body was found next to an abandoned lorry near the Taygetos Pass.”

“That’s too bad,” the Baron said, and began to stare at Aphrodite. “How many Germans have died during Andros’s little escapade through the Peloponnese?”

Aphrodite stopped crying, the streak of tears still running down her cheeks. She glanced at Franz, who appeared to be making some mental calculations. A terrible premonition began to form in the hollow of her stomach.

Finally, Franz said, “Altogether, if we include those killed at that ammunition dump in Laconia, thirty-seven Waffen SS.”

“Thirty-seven of Germany’s finest dead,” repeated the Baron incredulously. “And how many Greeks?”

Franz said, “If we don’t include the Greek andartes at the National Bands base, then one, sir. That Greek gendarme who was gunned down when Andros crashed the checkpoint outside Sparta.”

“And he was working for us,” quipped the Baron. “How many suspected accomplices were rounded up in Sparta?”

Franz said, “Fifteen-so far.”

“That’s less than half as many Germans who have died,” the Baron observed. “That doesn’t look very good, Franz, does it?”

“No, sir.”

Aphrodite could feel her heart pounding.

“Then I suggest you do more than even the score in the revised report you’ll forward to Berlin,” the Baron ordered. “You can start by burning to the ground every single village those terrorists may have passed through and then round up two hundred locals in Sparta and Kalamata and have them shot. That would work out to about five Greeks to every one German. More than a fair rate of exchange, wouldn’t you say?”

Aphrodite could take it no longer. “No, don’t!” she cried. “Please don’t kill any more people!”

The Baron smiled. “I’ll double that number if you don’t give me the text,” he warned her. “Or I’ll cut it in half, if you’ll be reasonable.”

Choking on her tears, she nodded.

“Good,” he replied, and turned to Franz. “Make it only one hundred Greeks.”

“Of course, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.”

“Numbers, Standartenfuhrer,” said the Baron. “Berlin loves numbers. And at this point I don’t want to draw any further attention by doing anything that suggests we’re slacking off in Greece. Now, help me with Aphrodite here.”

She said nothing as they helped her to her feet.

The Baron removed the glass-plated text from her hands. “There, now,” he told her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She watched him take the glass plate and put it in a wall safe behind the portrait of King Ludwig II. Then he and Franz led her toward the bookcase.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

The Baron replied, “Why, to your new quarters in the lower levels.”

When she resisted, they dragged her by the arms and practically hurled her into the dark passageway. But it wasn’t a passageway. It was an elevator. Oh, God, she thought, what else can there be? Then the Baron and Franz stepped inside, the door closed, and the cage descended into the bowels of the earth.