The 34th Degree

12

P restwick sat on the edge of his stiff chair. Across the desk, the great round face seemed to hover over the dark bow tie with white polka dots, disembodied from the prime minister’s navy blazer. Holding that blazer together over the expansive stomach was a single brass button. With each puff the great man took of his cigar, the button came alarmingly close to popping off. Prestwick wondered if it would be poor etiquette for him to duck should it fly toward his face.

“In less than eight weeks, the largest invasion force ever assembled in human history will land on the shores of Sicily,” Churchill began. “We are talking about more than five hundred thousand American and British troops.”

Churchill unrolled a large map of the Mediterranean across the top of the desk, placing the teddy bear as a weight on one corner. Over Nazi-occupied Europe, the prime minister had drawn the outline of a huge crocodile stretching from Spain in the west to Greece in the east.

“This is our first assault on Fortress Europe and the first big seaborne landing on a coast held by the enemy.”

Churchill thrust his Havana up the soft underbelly of the crocodile to make his point. His fingers were long and thin, almost delicate. This always surprised Prestwick, perhaps because his memories of their previous chats were invariably dominated by the prime minister’s gruffness.

“As this is precisely what the Germans are expecting, the Combined Chiefs of Staff asked the British SOE and the American OSS to come up with several deception operations designed to convince the Germans that Sicily is only a cover, that the bulk of the Allied invasion force will land in Greece. The idea is to force Hitler to spread his coastal defenses thinly rather than concentrate them on Sicily, our intended point of entry.”

None of this was news to Prestwick, and he wondered where the prime minister was going. “I believe I understand the fundamental concept, sir.”

“My men at SOE got the ball rolling with Operation MINCEMEAT,” Churchill continued, apparently irritated at the interruption. “They arranged for a corpse, wearing a British officer’s uniform and carrying documents referring to an invasion of mainland Greece, to be floated off the Spanish coast. Two weeks ago this ‘Major Martin of the Royal Marines’ washed up on a beach near Alicante and was found by local fishermen. His papers fell into Nazi hands, as planned, and, I understand, are making quite an impression on the German High Command.”

This Prestwick hadn’t heard. “Why, that’s wonderful news, sir!”

“Mmm,” Churchill grunted, neither confirming nor denying what Prestwick had said. “Not to be outdone by London, you proposed your own OSS operation.”

“That’s right, sir,” Prestwick replied, trying not to smile. “Operation Maranatha.”

“Tell me, then: How did this inspiration come to you?”

“Gladly, sir.” Prestwick straightened in his chair. “While Major Martin was intended to dupe the German military and intelligence authorities, we also appreciated Hitler’s contempt for these traditional sources of information. He often consults his astrologers and numerologists before making any major decisions. Ultimately, he relies on what he perceives to be his infallible intuition. In the past we’ve encouraged this superstitious streak by propping up our own bogus astrologers, publicizing their prophecies in the world press and then using American OSS and British SOE agents to make them come true. Our Hungarian friend de Wohl’s prediction of SS general Heydrich’s death and our use of Czech assassins to carry it out is a case in point. So when we caught wind of Hitler’s interest in Greek Fire, I naturally considered ways we could turn it to our advantage. That’s when I recalled a fantastic tale I heard from a young Muslim warrior during one of my travels some years ago.”

“The infamous Hadji Azrael,” stated Churchill.

Prestwick nodded. “Hence Operation Maranatha,” he said. “The word ‘Maranatha’ is Aramaic and means ‘Lord, come.’ It was a greeting used by the early Christians to express their hope in Christ’s return. That’s how the legendary lost epistle of Paul to the Thessalonians became known as the Maranatha text-because it predicts the end of the world and the return of Christ. I simply arranged for a microfilm of a bogus Maranatha text to surface at our OSS outpost in Istanbul, which you correctly suspected of being infiltrated by Axis agents. In addition to its references to the Second Coming, Armageddon, and all the fire-and-brimstone rhetoric we find in Bible prophecy, the bogus text by implication singles out Greece as the first point of entry by any invasion forces from the Middle East, Allied or Divine.”

Here Prestwick couldn’t help himself and had to add, somewhat shamefacedly at his own brilliance, “I even encrypted it with an ancient Greek military cipher just to make Hitler’s numerologists think they had tapped into the Greek Fire formula.”

“So I’m told,” said Churchill, puffing his Havana. “That was quite…clever.”

“All in all,” Prestwick concluded proudly, “I’d call it an apocalyptic piece of theater designed to exploit Hitler’s fascination with the supernatural.”

There was heavy silence, and Prestwick waited expectantly for Churchill’s congratulations. When they didn’t come, he began to feel uneasy.

Finally, Churchill said, “And knowing Hitler’s obsessions, you never considered the possibility that he would attempt to obtain the original Maranatha text?”

“We suspected the microfilm would whet Hitler’s appetite, sir, but we never dreamed the Nazis would find a real text, because…” Prestwick trailed off.

“Because a real text couldn’t possibly exist?” Churchill asked. “Quite presumptuous of you. Indeed, this revelation of yours has turned into a divine comedy, and it’s that devil Hitler who will be laughing.”

Prestwick felt a hollowness in his stomach. “Excuse me, sir?”

“We just got these photos from C in London this morning.” Churchill pushed a file across the desk to Prestwick. “The Nazis beat us to the text. Operation Maranatha is blown.”

Prestwick’s heart sank. With trepidation, he opened the file and shuffled through the grisly photos. The charred remains of Orthodox monks lay strewn among the smoldering ruins. “Dear Lord. I take it this was once the Monastery of the Taborian Light?”

“Not one stone left unturned.”

“And Commander Lloyd?”

“Dead,” said Churchill. “This is the Baron’s handiwork.”

“General von Berg?” This was even worse than Prestwick had thought. He pushed the file of photos back across the desk.

“The implications, of course, are catastrophic,” said Churchill. “If the Nazis suspect your bogus Maranatha text is a plant, they’ll know Greece is only a cover and that we’ll be landing in Sicily. And they’ll be waiting for us on those beaches, all their forces concentrated. Hundreds of thousands of British and American lives are on the line, Prestwick.”

Prestwick stared at the map of Europe, everything Churchill said sinking like lead in his stomach.

“What I want to know,” demanded Churchill, “is how long before von Berg appreciates the differences between his text and your microfilm? How long before this time bomb of yours goes off?”

Prestwick’s mind, numbed for a moment by the realization that it was his head that would roll on Churchill’s altar of bungled Allied operations, now started to race. “The beauty of passing my forgery in the form of a microfilm, of course, is that the film is only a photographic reproduction of the text and not the text itself. That eliminates the danger of the Nazis dating my ‘ancient’ papyrus and discovering it to be discolored 1940 Canadian bond paper. Furthermore, my papyrus appears to be only a fragment of a larger document. My guess is that’s precisely the case with the text from the Taborian Light. Therefore, rather than compare the two versions side by side, the Germans could in fact see them as complementary.”

“It’s those alphanumeric codes of yours I’m worried about,” said Churchill sharply. “I sincerely doubt that the document von Berg has found, if genuine, is similarly encoded.”

That was true, Prestwick realized. Churchill had him there. “Perhaps,” he suggested weakly, “there’s still time to change the invasion plans?”

Churchill stopped him with a cold glance. He then waved his hand over the map and spoke as if by rote. “The toppling of Mussolini. The domination of the central Mediterranean. The ability to level threats at the soft underbelly of the Axis in southern France and the Balkans. Not to mention the possibility of drawing Turkey into the war on our side.” Some cigar ashes fell onto Greece, and the prime minister brushed them off. “These are highly desirable goals.”

There was little Prestwick could say, so he thought it best not to say anything.

“No,” Churchill concluded. “According to what you’ve told me, we must obviously steal that text, or destroy it, before von Berg cracks the codes and discovers the secret of Operation Maranatha: namely, that our text is a fraud.”

“Steal the text from the Baron?” Prestwick was incredulous. “Impossible!”

“Good God, nothing’s impossible,” Churchill replied. “It can’t be impossible, not with more than half a million troops on the line. But you’re correct in assuming that if von Berg has the text, it will be difficult to find. A traditional commando unit is no good, not until we know exactly where von Berg has hidden it. Fortunately, I know of someone close to von Berg, an insider who may be privy to the text’s whereabouts and could be induced to help us.”

Churchill passed Prestwick a photo of a striking young woman. Large, sad eyes gazed out of one of the most beautiful faces Prestwick had ever seen, crowned with a shimmering mane of black hair that fell behind her shoulders. Prestwick was seduced by her wide and well-formed mouth. “Who is she?”

“Von Berg’s mistress,” Churchill explained. “Aphrodite Vasilis, an Athens socialite.”

“She can’t be over twenty-one.”

“Exactly,” said Churchill. “And if anybody else besides von Berg knows about the text, it’s Miss Vasilis. She’s the chink in his armor, his Achilles’ heel. If we can get through to her, we can get to the text.”

“But how, sir?” asked Prestwick. “Knowing the Baron, she’s probably just as well defended as the Maranatha text. And I’m sure he’s trained her never to talk to strangers.”

“That’s why we’re going to send her an old friend.”

“An old friend?” Prestwick was curious.

“A special man I have in mind,” Churchill went on. “A man I believe is capable of persuading Miss Vasilis to help us.”

Prestwick adjusted his tie and leaned forward expectantly. “And who would that be, sir?”

“His name is Chris Andros.”

Prestwick frowned and sat back in his chair. “Of the Andros shipping family?”

“The same,” said Churchill. “I knew his father well. General Nicholas Andros of the Greek army, one of Greece’s greatest war heroes. He was killed on Crete two years ago during the Nazi invasion. His brother-in-law now runs Andros Shipping in Athens, under Nazi supervision. He also runs guns for us to the Greek Resistance.”

“And this son of General Andros. Where is he now?”

“Here in the States.” Churchill drew out a file. “You’ll discover that Chris Andros is a fiercely independent, proud young man who seems hell-bent on emerging from his father’s shadow on his own terms. That’s why he left politically scarred Greece and came to America.” He pushed the file across the desk.

Prestwick opened the file, and a photo fell to the floor. He picked it up by the corner and saw a rather dashing young man no older than twenty-five standing in what he recognized as Harvard Yard. For a Harvard man, Prestwick thought, this Andros cut a fine figure: medium height, good shoulders, and a trim, athletic build. He had black wavy hair, clear dark eyes, an aquiline nose, and a firm jaw. But it was his broad grin that made Prestwick hate Andros, for it was the kind of winning smile no decent man could hate and no warm-blooded woman could resist.

“A handsome man,” he observed, unable to hide the envy in his voice. “Too handsome, really, for a spy.”

“Good looks aside, Prestwick, Andros has proved himself in action, which is more than I can say for you.”

Stung by this tasteless exposure of his faults, Prestwick replaced the photo of Andros in the folder. He thumbed through the rest of the documents, hoping to glean some vice or character flaw that he could put to good use. “What makes you think Miss Vasilis will assist young Andros?”

“She was his fiancee before the Nazis invaded Greece and cut off their engagement.”

“Ah.”

Churchill added, “Those letters in his file are love letters the two wrote to each other between the time of their engagement and the middle of 1941, when all communication ceased. Our girls in Bermuda intercepted them. From what they tell us, Andros knows nothing about the new man in his former fiancee’s life. As for Miss Vasilis, she still thinks he’s at Harvard, as do the Germans.”

“But he’s not there anymore?”

“Dropped out as soon as the Germans invaded,” Churchill told him. “Tried to get back to Greece for personal reasons, but couldn’t.”

“So where is he now?”

“The United States Military Academy.”

“West Point?” Prestwick could see there was more to young Andros than he at first imagined. “He’s a soldier, just like his father?”

“I wouldn’t put it to him that way, Prestwick, but it’s all there in your file. You’ll recruit him, train him at the Farm, and then slip him into Greece. There he’ll make contact with the girl and, ideally, steal the text.”

Prestwick glanced at the file in his hands, keenly resenting that his career now rested with a young, untested man he hadn’t even had a hand in selecting. “But what chance does a rank amateur-even if he is a West Pointer-have against the likes of the Baron?”

“Young Andros is our only chance,” Churchill said. “He knows the language and the land of Greece better than any of our own. He also has, as you people in New Haven put it, the proper ‘connections’ in Athens. Let’s see how he fares with Miss Vasilis. If her feelings for him are anywhere near what she’s expressed in those letters, she’ll help.”

“And if not?”

“We have another little Greek tragedy in the making. And you’ll be part of it.”

“Excuse me?”

Churchill drew out a second file. “According to your OSS records, Yale cut off all your funding just before you joined SOE.” He grew reflective. “This war is the best thing that ever happened to you, isn’t it? If it came to an end, you’d have nowhere to go, would you?”

“Would you, sir?” Prestwick shot back, and then, seeing the frown on the prime minister’s face and realizing the enormous offense of his insult, hastily added, “Would any of us, really?”

Churchill reached over and tapped his cigar on an ashtray. “You don’t have any friends, do you, Prestwick?”

“Plenty, sir, in every department.”

“Those are colleagues, Prestwick, acquaintances.” Churchill sat back in his chair and looked at him. “I’m talking about those individuals with whom you spend your leisure. You don’t have any of those in your life, do you?”

Prestwick felt cornered and didn’t like it. He always felt uncomfortable whenever he considered his personal relationships, or lack thereof, and wondered what the prime minister was driving at. “No, sir.”

“You were married once, too. What happened?”

“She left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was because of my work,” Prestwick put in hastily, feeling he had to provide some sort of excuse. “She couldn’t come to grips with my devotion to scholarship.”

“The same scholarship the academic community could do without?”

Prestwick thought Churchill’s cruelty deserved a response. But it eluded him, and he was forced to face the cold truth that he had squandered the better part of his life on dubious research and lost the only woman he ever loved.

Churchill said, “We can’t afford to have any of our lonely masterminds wandering about in vulnerable conditions.”

“Vulnerable? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”

“I think you do.” Churchill produced a thick envelope and pushed it across the desk.

Prestwick picked up the envelope and opened it. It was stuffed with American hundred-dollar bills. “There must be several thousand dollars in here, sir.”

“Just enough to cover your gambling losses,” said Churchill, giving him a knowing look.

Utterly humiliated, Prestwick pocketed the cash. Desperately, he tried to recover his dignity in the face of all this unpleasantness. “I can explain, sir.”

Churchill held up his hand to inform him that no explanation was necessary. “That young actress, by the way, is one of Hoover’s,” he added. “She has more than enough secrets to pry loose from the hearts of private citizens without your wasting her time. Or compromising our secrets to the FBI.”

Prestwick swallowed hard. “I won’t, sir.”

“Good,” replied Churchill, and he repeated the point of their little conversation lest it be lost on either of them. “It is paramount that the Nazis believe we’re about to invade Greece, Prestwick. You’ll do whatever it takes to convince them. Understand? Or else, for you, this war is over.”