The 34th Degree

114

It was almost two o’clock in the morning when the Cherub surfaced several miles off the island of Corfu. Andros knew it as soon as the submarine’s electric motor stopped humming and the clackclack of its twin diesel engines took over. He lay there in his bunk, staring at the curving bulkhead, aware of movement outside in the fore-and-aft passageway. He rattled his handcuffs against the bunk’s rail to get some attention.

Finally, Prestwick poked his head in. “What is it?”

“Captain Safire. Where is he?”

“On the bridge. Why?”

“I need some air, fresh air, and space. And a smoke. I’ve been cooped up in this sardine can for eighteen hours.”

Prestwick said nothing and disappeared. Andros gnashed his teeth in despair, but the old professor returned with a key. He also was pointing a U.S. Army-issue Colt. 45 pistol at him, his aim unsteady.

“Considering your fear of water, I don’t suppose there’s any danger of you swimming away,” Prestwick said crisply. “But any funny business, and I’ll have to shoot your leg.”

“So this is how America treats its heroes,” Andros complained as the cuffs came off and he got to his feet. “Just be careful where you point that thing.”

Prestwick waved the pistol at the curtain. “You first, Chris.”

Andros took a step forward, nudged by the poke of the Colt at his back, and spun around into Prestwick, passed his arm over the hand holding the pistol, and locked it. Prestwick was looking into angry eyes, unable to shoot him or release his arm from the deadly grip. Andros struck Prestwick across the face with the back of his other hand. Prestwick cried out in pain and released his hold on the pistol, dropping it to the floor.

“You can thank Captain Whyte for teaching me that trick,” Andros said softly, stuffing one of Safire’s socks into Prestwick’s mouth before he could call for help. “And you can thank me for not going all the way with her instructions.”

Prestwick mumbled nonsense while Andros twisted his arm behind his back and drove him face-first into Captain Safire’s bunk until he was on his stomach. Andros reached for Safire’s clothesline, tied Prestwick’s wrists together, and forced his arms well up behind his back. He then passed the cord around Prestwick’s neck and back and his wrists, bent his legs backward, and tied them together.

“If you keep still, you won’t be hurt,” Andros told him. “But if you attempt to struggle, you’ll probably strangle yourself.”

Andros reached down and picked up the Colt from the floor. He slipped it behind his back, along with his father’s dagger and a flare from one of Safire’s storage containers. He then looked at the Tiffany amp; Co. ring box on the oak countertop and lit a cigarette before moving toward the passageway.

“You’re crazy if you think I’d let Aphrodite pay for your stupidity, Prestwick. You better pray she’s alive, because one way or another, I’m coming back from that island. If it’s not with her, then it’s for you.”